The Last Command
by Lord Noon
Summary: The King of Iron Fist 6 has ended, and Jin Kazama is dead - but for Nina Williams, the mission isn't over yet, as one last promise earns her more trouble than she bargained for...rated M to be safe.  Chapter 7 is up - the second node falls, but can Nina evade G-Corp in Sydney? Guest starring Kazuya Mishima!
1. Chapter 1: Make Yourself Scarce

**The Last Command**

**Chapter 1: Make Yourself Scarce**

7 hours of noise and spine-shaking discomfort finally come to an end as the helicopter touches down on a helipad that emerges from the side of Gargoyle Tower like the vestigal limb of some ancient and twisted demon. If I've seen one supposed tough guy turn pale and swallow back a dry heave at the very sight of the place, I've seen a thousand, but me? For a year now, it's been home, or the closest to such a thing I've had since my childhood; a quiet room and a soft bed to crawl back to after another day spent hiding behind crumbling walls, white-hot shrapnel scraping my shoulders as the corpses around me became knee-deep, then waist-deep, all dying for a cause they knew nothing about. Put that way, it sounds like the worst job in the world, but hey – the pay was good (_really_ good) and at least I didn't have to strangle any babies. That stuff always leaves me feeling a bit dirty afterwards.

As heavy-duty hydraulics retract the helipad back inside the building, I prise myself out of my seat – _ugh_, left buttcheek's gone to sleep – and lean through to the cockpit, turning to the pilot, still wearing full battle armour that makes him look like an angry robot from a demented artist's vision of the future, i.e. a little bit ridiculous.

"You don't talk to anyone about what you saw back there until you're officially debriefed – we don't want anyone panicking, understand?"

He nods before turning back to his controls; I doubt I need to worry about him keeping his silence. All Tekken Force soldiers have been subject to some nasty chemical conditioning since the 1st battalion revolted, so independent thought is a little beyond their ability now. Stepping out of the 'copter and holding down the edges of my jacket against the updraft caused by its rotors, I acknowledge the suit-wearing thugs that pass for security and head for the massive circular elevator, the rhytmic clicking of my heels on the bare metal floor echoing around the hangar and back to my ears. All the while, I can't help looking back over my shoulder, in case one of them makes an unfriendly move – stop worrying, woman, they don't even know what happened out there yet...

The elevator ascends to the top floor with shocking speed, and as the vertigo tugs at my guts, the full weight of all that's happened over the last twenty-four hours finally hits me. See, I'd been hired to protect Jin Kazama – you know him, the spiky-haired pretty boy turned bad – and help him in his effort to destabilise nations, render thousands dead and millions more homeless, and generally screw up the world big time. This was all for a good cause, though; Jin had gotten the idea that filling the planet with pain and suffering would bring some enormous genocidal demon into existence, and he actually _wanted_ it to turn up just so he could kill it. I know, I know – that's the dumbest plan you've heard in your life. I wasn't too impressed with it either. _"Why don't you just send a tank battalion down to its little tomb and blow it to kingdom come BEFORE it wakes up?"_ I asked. _"You're in command of the largest army in the world! You don't have to do everything yourself!"_ But...well, that just isn't how Jin's mind works, is it? _"I'm the only one who can stop it,"_ he solemnly declared, somehow keeping a straight face as he did. Now, don't get me wrong; I didn't actually _care _about the kid or anything. That way lies madness, at least in my line of work. It's just...why bother going to all the trouble (and it was a LOT of trouble) of defending a guy who's only going to go and kill himself in the end? Sometimes, a girl needs more than just money to enjoy her work; a little feeing of accomplishment goes a long way. Anyway, it's all finished now. The big bad demon showed up as promised, and Jin took him down; one enormous flare of energy later, both the boy and the monster were gone. Didn't find any bodies when I checked the site – except for that Swedish prick, and he was still alive, annoyingly – but after an explosion like that, there wouldn't necessarily be much left. So I came back here, to pack my bags and leave the Mishima Zaibatsu before someone else ascends to the throne and decides they don't like having me around. Oh yes, and I've got one final task to attend to...

The elevator shudders to a halt once it reaches the 'perch', originally the throne room where guests were made to kneel before whichever Mishima was in charge that week, now converted into a teenage boy's idea of what a cool supervillain hideout would be. Another thing I never really understood about Jin; was he quietly poking fun at himself by designing his own quarters this way? Or was it more a reflection of his loathing for the Zaibatsu and, by extension, his family? So many mysteries, so little time. I press my hand into the silicon pad mounted on the armrest of Jin's chair; it illuminates a soft green as its sensitive surface registers my fingerprints, and the concealed door behind me opens with barely a sound. As I step through the opening, motion-triggered lights flicker into life, revealing an innocuous bank of computers that wouldn't look out of place in an accountant's office. And here I was expecting a nuclear missile silo with a big red button. Shame.

Now...what was it he said again?

***EGYPT

***TEMPLE OF THE RECTIFIER, FRONT GROUNDS

***11 HOURS EARLIER

It felt wrong. I don't know how else to describe it, but looking up at that temple, with its enormous, flat doorway extending from a sheer cliff face, flanked on both sides by thirty-foot statues of animal-headed gods with names that sounded like Italian appetisers, it took all the restraint I had not to shiver in apprehension. I am not, and never have been, superstitious, but...

"Don't look at it." Easy for you to say, Kazama. Your eyes are as drawn to it as mine.

Something explodes behind me, and finally I turn away, instead gazing to the sky as the G-Corp gunship hovering overhead belches smoke and fire from its side, a silvery vapour trail the only visible sign of the robot girl – Alisa – zipping circles around it. It doesn't crash, but its vulcan cannons fall silent, and it swings its tail around before beating a hasty retreat. Kazuya Mishima was on board; no doubt he's foaming at the mouth with rage, and almost ready to jump out from a hundred feet up. That'd be _hilarious_, especially if he fell on Alisa's saw-arms.

Not my business, though. Returning my gaze to Jin, I note the quick, erratic movements of his eyes – he's a taciturn and stoic sort of man, but I've been around him long enough now to recognise the tiny fluctuations in his expression and figure out what they mean. Right now, he's...paranoid? I guess that would explain waiting for Alisa and our escort chopper to leave before telling me whatever he's about to tell me. Not that he needs to – it's pretty obvious our partnership is over. What's surprising is how remorseful I'm feeling about it. Oh well...

"So," I start with a calmness I don't feel, "end of the line, huh?"

"Yes," he mumbles, almost to himself, before fixing me with a piercing gaze that burns right through me. "The end for me, at least. But you, Nina...I have one more favour to ask of you."

"What, stick around long enough to bury you after you're done? No thanks. It's not really my idea of a good victory celebration."

"Your humour never ceases to baffle me. And this is not a task for me – this is for the world I leave behind."

Melodramatic much? Still, I'm intrigued – there's a shine in his eyes I haven't seen before. "I'm listening."

"Destroying Azazel will prevent the apocalypse, but it won't stop Kazuya's ambition, or Heihachi's. Someone needs to take command of the Tekken Force and stand against them – "

"Not that I'm not flattered or anything," I interrupt, as a sinking feeling settles in my gut, "but I'm not really known for my inspirational leadership skills."

"No, you're not." The bluntness in his tone stings me a little, even if it is the truth. "I meant Lars."

Are you kidding me? "You're joking, right? After everything he's done to screw this whole operation up, you – I'm sorry, but that's just fucking stupid. I'd trust _Paul Phoenix_ to lead an army before I'd give one to _him!_"

As I speak, Jin's mouth turns up into an apologetic – but slightly petulant – smile. Don't patronise me, kid – I'm not being paid nearly enough to turn the other cheek to that sort of thing. "I don't expect you to understand, Nina. But please, have faith in me when I say that this is the right course of action. What I do today will rid this planet of a potentially lethal cancer, but I have left many countries, and billions of people, in need of healing. Their voices cry out for a hero, someone incorruptible, to help them get back on their feet, and I have no desire to see them walk blindly into Kazuya's arms. Whatever problems I may have with Lars, however naive he may be, he _is_ the right man for the job."

Well, at least we can both agree on his naivete. That's something, I suppose. "Okay, so what does all this have to do with me?"

"As soon as Heihachi learns I'm dead," he states calmly, no longer smiling, "which will not take long, he will return to the Zaibatsu and take control. As the eldest male in the Mishima bloodline, he's entitled to the CEO's position – his only obstacle is debunking the myths regarding his own supposed 'demise', and with the lawyers he can afford, that will be a matter of hours. So I need you to reach Gargoyle Tower before him, enter my private computer hub, and transfer all command protocols for the Tekken Force over to Lars."

"Right," I nod, already seeing the flaws in this plan, "but won't Heihachi just reverse the change as soon as he arrives?"

He shakes his head, and drops eye contact, suddenly bashful. "No, he won't be able to. I...set the system with a genetic lock before we left, and that lock will only open for your exact DNA profile. As of nine hours ago, you are the only person in the world authorised to use the Zaibatsu's central server."

Of course you did. I don't even try to hide the rueful smirk that creeps up on my face. "So I basically _have_ to do what you say, since Heihachi's going to come after me anyway when he realises he can't change his desktop wallpaper without my help?"

The boy still can't bring himself to look at me as he mumbles, "Yes."

For a moment, I think about killing him. I imagine his eyes swelling in their sockets and staining red with oxygen starvation as I tighten my fingers around his neck, feeling bones grinding together before snapping like dry twigs. It wouldn't be hard, and at this range he's too close to fight back effectively. It'd be all he deserved for taking my future out of my hands, and the burning sensation in my heart tells me I'd enjoy it, too. But...no. He's going to die anyway, so this just doesn't seem _fair_, for want of a better word. And I suppose I really do wanna stick it to Heihachi, just for having the temerity to not be dead yet. Shallow? Why, yes I am, ma'am, and proud of it.

"Okay," I somehow growl out from between gritted teeth, "so, what? Do I get to go kill your grandpa now?"

He finally looks at me again, with scepticism bordering on disdain. Way to keep me on the payroll. "You can't kill him. No-one can."

"Only 'cause nobody's tried hard enough..."

"I'm serious, Nina; taking the fight to Heihachi is _not_ what I want, and neither is it good strategy. All you can do is run."

"To _where?_" More cracks showing in the plan now. Even without the Tekken Force, Heihachi has the influence to reach every corner of civilisation and make his presence felt...

"To the ends of the earth and maybe beyond. And you can't stop until Heihachi is removed from power – which _will _happen in due time, I promise you."

I want to believe him, I really do. But he can't even bring himself to sound convincing; he knows he may as well have signed my death warrant personally. Well, at least he's telling me to my face – can't ask for much more of your executioner than honesty, can you? I turn away from him like I'm about to cry, just so he won't see me thinking...Jin'll be dead soon. He can't keep tabs on me from beyond the grave (I think), so he's never gonna know if I do what he's told me to or not. Why not just play along until the boy's been killed, then go to Heihachi and offer myself up? Could work. Old man Mishima only seems to hold grudges against family members, and it's not like he wouldn't need me...and where's the shame in betraying a client who's already dead? Yeah. That's what I'll do. Why not?

A hand – Jin's hand – suddenly tightens around my upper arm, and I remember that life has never made things so easy for me.

"I know you probably hate me for this, Nina, and I don't blame you. But I needed...I needed a guarantee, and you, above all else, are a _survivor_. Tough enough to see any battle through to the end, and smart enough to know when it's better to just call it quits. You were my only choice...my only hope."

There it is...that silvery tongue he inherited from his daddy, stroking my ego in _just_ the right way to make me feel all smug and self-confident. He doesn't really _need me_ – but he's so good at sounding pathetic, and _I'm_ so good at accepting praise, that it all clicks together and before I can even form a real argument against it, I'm already blurting out, "I'll do it."

His arm falls away, and I hear him release a breath I expect he's been holding since he started looking at his own shoes. "Thankyou. I...really don't know what else I could have done. Hmm?"

I don't need to ask what the _hmm_ is, in this case. Even without highfalutin' 'Devil Gene' stuff in my veins, I can feel the air change; like a sudden shift in condensation or pressure, the onset of a thunderstorm – not that you'd ever see one of those around here. My skin prickles with static electricity, and for just a moment, I can see my breath crystallise in front of me. Creepy.

His footsteps are already retreating when I turn around and blurt out his name.

"Jin!"

He stops immediately, wheeling around on one polished heel, a distracted and impatient look on his face...and I realise I have nothing to say. All this time, months of staying by his side, desperately fending off the threats of G-Corp, the Manjitou and the Korean's guerrila outfit, laughing so hard when we got to see another sunrise I felt like crying...how can I cover all of that with a few tiny words?

Truth told – I can't. So I just say, "Goodbye."

And with a nod, he turned and left. It would be the last time I'd ever see him.

***THE PRESENT

The computer's layout is simple enough. Can't tell if that's what it's supposed to be like or if Jin had someone install a more idiot-proof GUI before he left, knowing that I'd probably lose patience with anything more complicated. Whatever the case, the menus are all crisp and clear, and it takes a mere few minutes to figure out how to transfer tac-command protocols over to another leader...though it takes me another half-hour to actually type Lars' name and hit the 'enter' key. Dammit, Jin, if I knew it was gonna be this hard I would've kicked you in the crotch a few hundred times before letting you go...

Something clicks, and a section of keyboard folds away, like living plastic origami, and in its place rises a slot, almost like a letterbox, big enough for a hand to fit inside but little else. New words form on the screen:

AUTHORISATION CHECK: INSERT MATCHING LIVE DNA SAMPLE

"Genetic lock, _right_," I mutter to myself, and cautiously slip my hand inside the foreboding hole, mentally chiding myself for being so jittery; it's a computer, for christ's sake, it's not going to hurt you –

Something stabs my finger.

"Ah - !" I yank my hand free and look at the tip of my index finger, where a fat drop of blood now rests, leaking from a single, small, neat incision. Sticking the wounded digit in my mouth, I check the screen again – what's this shit now?

GENETIC PROFILE MATCH: williams, nina AUTHORISATION SUCCESSFUL!

"What kind of moronic designer made you, computer? I want to kill them now." Maybe that's an overreaction, but – well, screw you, _you_ weren't the one getting needles shoved in their fingers!

Still...that's it done. This time tomorrow, the largest and most dangerous army in the world will belong to a soft-hearted idiot, and Heihachi Mishima will want my head on a silver platter. I should start running now, but then the scale of what I just did, it...I just changed the world. The _whole world_ either saved or condemned by me tapping a few buttons on a computer. It's just so overwhelming, but not in an unwelcome sort of...something's printing. I didn't ask for anything to print, did I? Snatching the sheet out of the printer, I scan the first few lines – and immediately my heart starts pounding like tribal drums.

Nina,

Across the world right now, there are five computer 'nodes' that

make up the core MZ network. One of those nodes is the terminal

you see before you now. These five are the only machines capable

of changing Tekken Force deployment and other operations of simi

-lar importance. If they were destroyed, Heihachi would have no

reason to pursue you...

The locations of the remaining four can be found at the end of this

message. I did not tell you this in person because, frankly, I felt as

if I was already asking too much.

"You're not wrong there," I growl aloud before continuing to read.

You do not HAVE to do this, Nina, but in the long run, it may

help you find something like respite – an end to what will no

doubt become a prolonged and tiring chase. In case you do

accept this task, I took the precaution of rerouting several

arms shipments to the node locations, in case you find your

-self short on weapons. It is not much, but do keep in mind

that the nodes themselves will be largely unguarded once the

Tekken Force abandon their posts to join Lars. With a little

luck, this could be more simple than it appears.

As ever, I trust you to do the right thing.

Jin Kazama

(P.S. As a precaution, the terminal in front of you will self-

destruct ten minutes after this message is printed. You may

wish to move away before then.)

Couldn't you have written that at the _start?_ Tearing off the bottom of the sheet – there's a string of numbers there, probably co-ordinates – I drop the rest on the floor, peel myself out of the chair and slip out of the computer's little chamber. The door swings shut behind me; by the time it's closed, I'm already back on the elevator and going down.

Five, ten, fifteen floors pass in mere moments, then I'm off, into another elevator, a _normal_ one this time – c'mon, c'mon, five four three two one – lobby, the doors open and I'm trying not to look too hurried as I head for the front door and – oh great. Heihachi. Walking into the building. Man, it took him even less time than I'd thought to convince everyone he wasn't dead...

"Oh, Mr. Mishima, we've been so worried ever since your unfortunate disappearance..." Some slimy concierge scurries up to the old man – the way he's acting, I almost mistake him for Lee – bowing and kowtowing, eager to impress the returning management. Well done, that man, distracting Heihachi just enough for me to slip out of sight behind the receptionist's desk. Throwing a warning glance to the girl on duty, I wait and count the footsteps that approach – Heihachi's are easy to differentiate, since the old fool's wearing those sandals of his, the ones that look like they're made from cement blocks – and cross my fingers. Ten steps, twelve...sixteen, got to be nearly to the elevators now – wait...he's stopped. My breath catches in my throat, and I swear I can feel drops of ice-cold sweat prickling between my shoulder-blades, don't notice me, just keep going you bastard, nothing to see here...pleasepleaseplease...

...There; the footsteps continue, rising in pitch slightly as they ascend the steps leading up to the elevators. Still I wait, until I hear the steel doors closing before I breathe again, then vault over the desk and stride out the front doors without a backwards glance.

I make it about halfway across the plaza before the alarms start blaring. Then the ground begins to shake. Hidden machinery groans as four-foot-thick concrete slabs grind to the sides, revealing reinforced titanium doors that split apart in much the same way – and out of the underground hangar, scattering civillians in their wake, comes a convoy of APCs, their battleship grey armour gleaming in the midday sun, massive tyres cracking the pavement slabs underneath. Each one in turn unfolds enormous jet turbines, and I back off as quickly as I can before –

_**WHOOMPH!**_

Gah! Even from thirty feet away, the wash from the ignition makes my skin prickle and blister as I stumble blindly across the street, the engines picking up into a ear-bleeding whine as they strain to lift the vehicles up into the air – someone bumps into me, almost knocking me on my ass, but I manage to stay on my feet long enough to reach a side-alley, where I lean back against the wall and look up as the APCs swoop past overhead. Shouldn't take them too long to find Lars' gang, assuming they transmit friendly hails over the radio.

Me, on the other hand...well. Heihachi's probably noticed the commotion, and it'll take him a few hours at most to figure out it's all my fault. He'll come after me, and when word of _that_ spreads amongst the underworld, I'm sure Kazuya will get involved, as eager to deprive daddy of a win as he'll be to find out exactly what I've got, if not more so. Plus there's the inevitable bus-load of idiots with axes to grind against Jin, who'll probably see me as a good scapegoat now he's gone. So, what can I do?

...exactly what my orders specified. I turn my back on the Zaibatsu and I start running.

**Author's Notes:**

Right, so this is the first fanfic I've put up anywhere in a long, long time. For some reason, every one I write winds up being about Tekken, not sure why...anyway, I got this idea after playing through T6's Scenario Campaign, and idly wondering what might happen to my favourite game-girl afterwards. Some other bits of the plot are 'inspired' (read: a bit ripped-off) by the 'World's Most Wanted' arc of Matt Fraction's _Invincible Iron Man_ comics.

Good news is: I've got a full working plan for how the story will go, so I know what I have to write next and won't get stuck for ideas.

Bad news is: I'm only 3 chapters in out of a planned 15, and since I'm fairly active in efedding (don't ask), my writing time tends to get spent elsewhere. So updates may be few and far between...but I really, _really_ don't want to quit this before it's done.

That's basically all I've got to say, except thanks for reading this far, and I promise that almost all the other chapters will have more action in them.

**Next Time: **Nina's got to get out of Tokyo, but that's easier said than done in a city right at the center of the MZ/G-Corp war. Guest-starring Hwoarang, Baek and Miguel!


	2. Chapter 2: Don't Mention The War

**The Last Command**

**Chapter 2: Don't Mention The War**

One hour without trouble. Didn't see that coming.

Didn't take me long to hail a taxi, since all the traffic near Gargoyle Tower had frozen to the spot whilst the APCs moved out. I know, I know...ultra-smooth hitwoman and superspy uses public transport, that's not very Double-Oh-Seven now, is it? Well, I had a company car – and a company bike – but they're microchipped, so as soon as I put the key in the ignition, their movements will be logged by Zaibatsu surveillance, which Heihachi has full control over. No go. And it rarely pays for someone like me to actually _own_ a vehicle, so it's either theft or hitch a ride, and right now, I'd like to attract as little attention as possible, so no stealing.

The driver wasn't that cooperative – and his rapid-fire babble didn't make him easy to understand – but he clamped his trap when I handed over the whole contents of my wallet. Hope I didn't give him my passport by accident...anyway, he's taking me to the city outskirts now. The streets are quite clear these days, with many people afraid to go outside in case they get caught in the middle of a fresh skirmish. Suits me just fine; civilian casualties just complicate things.

The driver's now mumbling to himself; I can only make out every third word, think it's something about last night's TV that bothered him. Turning around in my seat, I check out the back window for signs of pursuit, and find nothing – just like I did two minutes ago. Probably shouldn't be getting my panties in a bunch so much...

"Oh hai!" the driver bellows abruptly, snapping my attention back to the front. "You hear this?"

He's pointing to the radio, but at the current volume it's all just meaningless dribblings. I make a little spinning motion with one hand, and he obligingly turns it up...

"_...for that, Miro-chan. And now the main headlines again: it has been confirmed by Mishima Zaibatsu representatives that Jin Kazama, the company's CEO, is dead. No details have been released as yet, but it has been made clear that the Zaibatsu will continue to operate under former CEO Heihachi Mishima, who was considered dead himself over the past year..."_

And silently, the floodgates open. The driver grins back at me in the rear-view mirror, giving an enthusiastic thumbs-up, which I return dishonestly. Suppose I shouldn't be surprised that Heihachi wouldn't beat around the bush with the announcement, but I'd been hoping for a delay; the longer people thought Jin was still around, the longer it'd take for them to focus all their efforts toward finding me. Not that _everyone_ knew I was Jin's...minder, I suppose – this cabbie sure as hell doesn't – but word got around quick after G-Corp sussed it out.

The car's slowing down. Up front, the driver shakes his head at the sight of at least five tail-backed vehicles ahead of us. "Ai, damn traffic jams!" he exclaims, slapping the wheel in frustration.

"That's no jam," I murmur to myself, feeling the subtle vibrations that shake the car's entire frame, just a hair too violently to be the engine alone...then I hear the screech of a thousand-pound shell in mid-flight, and my stomach lurches. Trusting my gut instinct is something I've never questioned; daddy taught me too well for that. So I yank down the handle and throw myself out of the car, taking long, running steps as the driver calls out from behind me, and the sound gets louder and louder, three – two – one _JUMP – _

...

For a moment, I remember the old saying – 'you never hear the one that gets you' – and I nearly panic, before rational thought reasserts itself, reminding me that I wouldn't be making that thought, never mind feeling hot ash and rubble sprinkling across my back, if I'd just been killed. So I push myself up, dust myself off, and take a look around.

The taxi didn't take the shell full-on, but it can't have been more than ten feet from the detonation point; most of its right side is melted and torn to shreds, with only the rear's remaining yellow paint serving as a reminder of what it once was. The driver didn't make it out, and he's taken enough shrapnel to kill an elephant; whatever's left of him is burning along with his car, leaving a sickly-sweet smell in the air that I'd rather not hang around to savour. So of course, I do the one thing nobody would expect me to do, and run straight towards the impact crater...time it right, and up – onto the hood of the taxi, then I hop from one vehicle wreck to the next, quick enough that my leggings don't catch aflame, and pretty soon I'm beyond the fire and climbing over a fallen telephone pole to find...oh.

"Crap," is all I can think to say. It's the beginning of the motorway, but nobody here's interested in driving on it; instead, it's turned into another warzone. On one side, down at ground level with me, are a bunch of grimy types in home-made 'armour', sporting stolen firearms – the same underground resistance movement Gordo and I encountered in the docklands a month ago. Apparently we didn't kill them hard enough. And up above, on the elevated road, a squad of guys in dull green armour with shiny sunglasses – G-Corp soldiers. Presumably they're the ones with the artillery backing them up; probably weren't trying to get me, either. Their aim is just awful.

Mind you, with direct line-of-sight, and me standing out in the open, even morons like that stand a chance, so let's just move on. Keeping my head low, I sprint for the nearest chunk of upturned asphalt and hide behind it, craning my neck to gauge the movements of the resistance boys. I could probably kick all their asses at once in a straight fight, but they've got guns, and I've only got my knife on me, so it'd be best to just slip by quietly. Looks like...there's three of 'em between me and that tollbooth over there; I just need something to keep them from noticing me –

"You guys, get your asses outta that hole! We got nothing to lose but our lives here!"

That voice, it's...the Korean kid? Yeah, he's right there, on the front line, bellowing encouragement, dust coating his stupid carrot-top haircut, making him look so much older. Never would've thought of him as a soldier in even the loosest sense of the word, but I can't fault his technique; he's swinging that M16 around like a pro. At his command, the three guys before me vault over the crumbled masonry ahead of them and form up by his side, leaving me with a clear run. Thanks for that one, boy.

I give the G-Corp guys a few seconds, waiting for them to re-focus their aim towards carrot-top, then make my move, darting forwards and scurrying along towards the tollbooth, keeping one eye turned up towards the elevated road, just in case. Bullets _zing_ through the air all around, but most miss me by miles; nobody ever believes me when I tell them, but this suit, the purple camo, it actually does blend in pretty well, at least in urban areas.

_Sk-tang!_ Okay, that one was a little too close; I swear I felt a rush of air across my thigh as it passed me. C'mon, just five more steps – and I'm there, up against the wall. My fingers wrap gently around the handle, then twists; the door opens with barely a creak, not that anyone would hear it over the gunfire and screaming anyway. Slipping inside, I resist the urge to cough; the broken windows have let the dust and dirt kicked up from the furious shelling inside, and now it hangs in the air like thick fog. Whatever, the walls are still holding up, so it's a reprieve from the bullets, at least for now. What I really need, though, is fresh transportation, something that'll get me away from here discreetly, or at least quickly...something like a bike. Like that bike right there. Laying propped against a wall by an owner too lazy or hurried to bother with the stand, its buffed engine parts gleaming to an almost mirror-finish. Not my style at all, it's trying a little too hard to be macho (okay, a _lot_ too hard) but it's a gift horse, so there's no use in complaining.

Kneeling down beside it, I locate the starter key slot easily enough – no key, but that's no problem. With a sharp tug, it'll come off, and I'll have this baby hotwired and purring like a contented kitten before you can say –

"And what do we got here?"

...That wasn't me. Neither was the metallic double-click of a rifle cocking, coming from about two metres behind me. Couldn't hear them approach over the sounds of the battle outside. Dammit, woman, that's just – no. Save the chiding for later. Right now, just figure out how you'll get out of this.

"Keep your hands high, _chica_, and we won't need to make a mess," the stranger continues in his droll Spanish accent as I stand back up, leaving my palms at head height. 'Chica'? Really? "Now turn around..."

I oblige him, steadily rotating on my heels until we're face to face. I wasn't expecting a soldier, and I'm not surprised by what I see; a tall, brawny Hispanic, heavy-lidded eyes, unkempt hair, stubble – maybe a beard, just – probably quite the muscular body beneath the flowery shirt, leather coat and embroidered pants. The kind of guy that most other girls would call 'dreamy'. Not for me, though – these swarthy lothario boys make me sick with their insincerity. Plus, he's holding me at gunpoint. Major turn-off right there. He's also looking at me real strange; eyes widening, like he...knows me?

"You...you're Kazama's little bitch of a lap-dog, ain't ya?"

I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, beyond raising one eyebrow archly. I can see the barrel of his rifle shaking from here...and with that, a plan suddenly takes shape. Staying silent, I invite him to continue, and he takes the bait, almost frothing at the mouth as he rants onwards.

"Kazama turned the happiest day of my sister's life into my own worst nightmare when his jets bombed Madrid, and for what? A strategic _advantage?_ All those lives, just to move another pawn across your giant chessboard?"

"Pretty much, yeah," I quickly respond, doing my best to sound utterly unconcerned in spite of the situation. If this guy's half as impulsive as he seems to be, this'll be easy. One last prod, perhaps? I smirk, and add, "But I wouldn't go blaming Jin for _everything_. Aerial operations were always a little beyond him, so he left them under _my_ command."

The blood drains from his face, making the erratic twitching in one of his eyeballs all the more pronounced. "You..."

"Yeah – me. I ordered the attack – hell, I _led_ the attack!" I sneer as best I can, like I'm savouring his misery, trying to distract this loser whilst I shift my centre of balance, waiting for him to do the man thing and flip out. "I peered down through my jet's canopy as the bombs blasted your town to scrap, and I laughed and laughed and _laughed –_ "

He screams suddenly, cutting me off, and lunges forward, letting his rifle drop to the floor – good man! – and throwing all his power behind a right hook that'll take my head off if I don't duck – right – _now_, then bring the heel of my palm straight across his chin; after throwing all his weight forwards, the force of impact causes him to lose balance and fall back on his ass.

"Just like I'm laughing now, in fact." Now I'm just talking to distract him, while he scrambles to his feet, colour now returning to his features as he seethes, and I take one step forward – "HA!" – and lash out with a left kick, aiming high; I feel it connect with something solid without even looking, and twirl around to launch a follow-up right – oh hell, he caught them on his forearms, now –

"Hurrrk - !" His knee, right into my solar plexus; pretty much walked into that one, can't stop myself from doubling over, and now one meaty arm's locked around my head like a vise, whilst this bastard – this _lucky_ bastard – starts hammering away on my spine with clubbing strikes. Each one sends another sharp knife of pain through my chest, and it's only a matter of time until he breaks something vital...if I let him.

Instead, I tuck both my legs in tight underneath me, get a firm grip around the back of his legs and – _heave!_

"Yaaahh!" He shrieks from surprise as little skinny ol' me throws him overhead – before I come crashing down to drive the point of my elbow into his gut, which cuts off his squealing along with his air supply. Time to press the advantage; snatching his left arm as it flails wildly, I turn him over onto his belly and pin his shoulder to the floor with my knee, then tuck the forearm in my armpit and lean back until – pop! Good luck playing the mandolin this week, pal.

Even after that, he still struggles, spitting and cursing, kicking his legs fruitlessly, trying to reach my throat with his one good arm. I can admire persistence, but there's a fine line between that and stupidity, a line this guy's just crossed. Grasping his good arm at the wrist, I thread it around his throat and pull it tight, before getting back up to my feet and dragging him back up with me, letting the weight of his body aid in his own strangulation. Oh...that old, familiar feeling, that rush...the final moments of a man's life trickling away in your hands. It's been so long since I felt this, what with all the paper-pushing desk work and delegating the dirty work to others...I rest my head over his shoulder and wait for the satisfying sound of his last breath rattling out of his constricted throat before he -

The door just opened.

"Hey, Miguel! This is no time for a toilet break, we need that ammo out front _now!_" It's the kid, and he's got someone else with him, judging by the footsteps. There's a pillar between them and me, which I quickly drag this schmuck – let's assume this is Miguel – behind, covering his mouth with one hand, keeping my breaths quiet as the pretend soldiers blunder about, kicking over chairs and boxes like they expect to find Miguel cowering under one. With no reason to believe anyone's listening, they don't bother keeping their voices down – handy for me.

"MIGUEL! Where the hell's he gone now?"

"He could very well be dead," replies another voice, this one also speaking Korean but with the scratchy strain of old age behind it, "and even if not, it won't take two of us to search for him, Hwoarang. You should have stayed with the others."

"Eh, they'll be fine for a minute or two – and who knows, Master Baek, you might be needing your colostomy bag changed soon..."

"The day this old man needs help from a recalcitrant pup like you is the day I give up the arts of combat in favour of gardening. And...it doesn't look like he's here."

'He' is still struggling in my grip; I could bring his life to a sharp halt right this minute if I could use both hands against his neck, but I need to keep him quiet, just for a few more seconds...come on, you bastards, just walk away, nothing to see here...

And in that moment, it all goes pear-shaped. A sharp pain in my foot as this lumbering Latino lummox brings one heel down across my toes; I should've been ready for that, but I wasn't, and the brief relaxing of my grip is enough for him to get his mouth free and choke out a strangled cry – "BAEK, IT'S - !" before I reach forwards and slide my fingers into his mouth, clamping around his warm, slippery tongue as tightly as possible – a pointless effort, since _of course_ they heard that, and one of them quickly steps around the pillar to face me, aiming a rifle that's lowered as soon as he sees Miguel between us. Big mistake; with one foot thrusting against his left ass-cheek, I send Miguel tumbling into his would-be saviour – isn't that one of the guys from the tournament Kazuya held years ago? Damn, he looks _old_ now. Taken by surprise, the pensioner – Baek? – tumbles to the ground, with Miguel rolling over the top of him.

"Master!"

Nice one, kid, telling me where you are...I turn around the other side of the pillar and, yep, there he is; his wide eyes wheel towards me, his gun following after them, but I've already closed the gap between us, and bat the rifle right out of his hands with my left palm, then turn into the step and bring my right elbow around. His nose crumples under the impact, but he doesn't fall, cursing me out in his native tongue as he spins – yeah, like I'm gonna just let you kick me...crouching down, I coil one leg in like a spring, smiling grimly to myself as his wild roundhouse whiffs the air above me, then lash out – "GRAAHH!" – he squawks as my heel catches his jaw, hard enough to life him clear off his feet before letting him drop on his back.

Haven't got much time – the other two are still disentangling themselves, but it won't take long, just grab the gun and – hey...in the boy's pocket, is that...no, I couldn't be this lucky...could I?

"Oh, come to mama..." It's a key, and although it could just be for anything, I just _know_ it's the one I need. Darting across the room, I take a moment to kick Baek in the face before straddling the bike and fumbling for the ignition port, key's in, and...chug, chug, whine. "Fucking _hell_," I hiss between clenched teeth as I twist the keys again, hearing the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind me – and the engine roars into life. It's truly one of the sweetest sounds I've ever heard.

"Hey, my BIKE!" Actually, the kid's whining is also pretty sweet to the ear, too.

Enough dawdling. I rev the engine, kick the stand up, and let go of the brakes – just barely crouching down into a proper riding position before the machine leaps forward and knocks the back door off its hinges, thundering down a short flight of steps with bone-shaking impact before hitting the mercifully flat road. A few stray rounds dash across the concrete around me, but I pay them no heed as I speed off on my way, leaving the sounds of battle behind me. If I could pat myself on the back right now, I would.

So...holy crap, where am I going again?

**Author's Notes**

Decided to put this chapter up at (near enough) the same time as the previous one, in case the time between updates from now on turns out to be really, really long. As you can probably guess, I'm trying to fit in at least one other Tekken cast member per chapter; some will be pretty key to the story, others'll just turn up looking for a kicking.

Anyway, it's late right now, so I'll just say thanks for reading again.

**Next Time: **It was just meant to be a pitstop for Nina...but for the 'Silent Assassin', nothing's ever that easy, especially with the wrath of G-Corporation bearing down on her. Guest-starring Bruce Irvin and Asuka Kazama!


	3. Chapter 3:  Get Your Head Checked

DISCLAIMER: Did I not bother putting this in before? Oh. Well, I'm not Katsuhiro Harada or any other member of the Tekken development team, so I don't own any of the characters presented in this story. Okay?

**The Last Command**

**Chapter 3: Get Your Head Checked**

"Hit me up again, Yuji."

So I found my way off the motorway after about thirty miles, and although that leaves me still inside Tokyo, it's enough of a head start that I feel comfortable stopping to get my bearings. Picked up – well, stole, really – an atlas from a tourist gift shop nearby, and now I'm in a bar, with the map pages spread out across my lap and the scrap of torn paper clutched in one hand. Of course, I say 'bar'...it's not a _real_ bar. Nothing alcoholic in the bottles, no cigarette butts stamped into the floor, no burly guys having a violent argument over the football in the corner – not like back home. No, this is a watered-down, PG-certificate kids' play-park sort of bar, and what I just ordered wasn't a gin & tonic, but an apricot & pineapple smoothie. The bartender – I don't know if he's actually called Yuji, that just seemed like the name most suited to him – slides it along into my waiting hand, and my stomach quivers at the thought of enduring more of this soft, milky piss. If it wasn't for the dry-mouth riding without a helmet got me, I'd never touch this stuff, and no way in hell am I paying for it. Can't believe I forgot how to say 'mineral water' in Japanese...

The little bell above the door rings as another couple customers walk in. I don't bother looking up at them, though the pause in their footsteps tells me they've clocked my outfit and the rifle slung over my shoulder. Everybody else in the bar did the same thing when I came in, but nobody's panicked, or threw themselves on the floor, or called the cops. Seems like everyone's getting used to armed commando types wandering into their lives without provocation, and they're content to just pretend it's not happening and try to work around it, ignorant of the whole 'war' thing. Good for them. Really, I mean that. It's a testament to the will and survival instinct of the human race, something which girls and boys in my line of work overlook most of the time.

Okay, enough schmaltz, let's double-check these numbers. Just like I figured, they're co-ordinates, and unless the Japanese write these things down back-to-front or something, then the network node gizmos are found in...Sydney, Australia. London, England. Some random bit of Siberia I don't recognise, Russia. And New Mexico, USA. All adds up to a _hell_ of a lot of frequent flyer miles...speaking of which, I'm gonna need to procure a plane for myself somehow. Heihachi's probably already circulated my face to the bought-and-paid-for security staff at all of this country's public airports; even in the off chance I broke through whatever traps they'd spring on me in the terminal building, they'd know exactly where I'm heading, and right now, the fact that they don't know my destination(s) is one of my very few advantages. Choking down a mouthful of smoothie, I try to dredge up enough basic Japanese from memory to ask 'Yuji' if he's got a phonebook laying around, when someone squawks behind me.

"You bitch!"

I catch a reflection in the mirror above the bar; parted brunette hair, melodramatic pointing finger – _Anna?_ No, it's that other girl...Asuka, that's it. Asuka Kazama. The cousin Jin never knew he had until she turned up at the last tournament looking to stamp on his neck. Hot-blooded little twerp never did get far enough for that, though. She's glaring at me with fury beyond her years, and I think I know what the problem is.

"Sorry, I'm not French, or 16, no matter how much I want to be. You've got the wrong girl." Little miss Kazama here has some sort of problem with this other Iron Fist newbie, an immensely irritating rich girl that I deeply regret never getting the chance to kick the crap out of. She was blonde too, so –

"I know you're not Lili," she retorts, still speaking much louder than necessary – I'm only two metres away, for Christ's sake! "You were with Jin right up 'til he died. You twisted him with your lies and turned him into the monster that destroyed the world!"

The bell above the door jingles as the customers – and 'Yuji' – make what was probably supposed to be an inconspicuous exit. Can't blame them for running; Asuka's making a scene, and I have a growing suspicion I'm not going to be able to calm her down by talking. Still, it's worth a shot. It's what Jin would want me to do.

Turning around on my stool, I match her gaze evenly and speak in a slow, measured tone, keeping my hands down and my temper in check. "You weren't there, little one. All your views on what your cousin did are based on second-hand sources, none of which are even close to the truth. And as for me, all I did was help him carry out _his own_ plans. I'm a mercenary, I don't – "

"Don't treat me like a dumb kid!" She rants, keeping her irony blinkers firmly in place. "Nobody from the Kazama family would ever fall to the darkness – not unless they were led there by some two-faced whore like you! And now you're gonna pay for it – with interest!" She raises her open palms as her feet spread further from...wait...that stance, I've...

...I've seen it before, haven't I?

***HOKKAIDO, JAPAN

***THE IRON FIST TRAINING GROUNDS

***23 YEARS EARLIER

Not fast enough –

_Thwurck._ "Ugh!"

Something catches the back of my legs, and I topple gracelessly to the sand underfoot, but it's the sudden burning explosion where my nose should be that's the bigger distraction right now. Raising one hand gingerly to my face, I feel dampness seep through the tips of my glove – man, that one's gushing like a fountain. "You god me good...I mean, got." Dammit, I'm sounding all nasal – must be broken.

"Yeah, sorry, I kind of got carried away there..."

"Dode worry, iz nod as bad as id looks." I push myself up to a sitting position and smile reassuringly across to my sparring partner, who genuinely looks worried, the poor sap. Her name's Jun Kazama, she's some sort of, I don't know, animal police officer (like Ace Ventura?) and she's here, at the second King of Iron Fist tournament to occur in my lifetime, to...actually, she wasn't very clear about that when I asked. She just sort of stared into space and said she 'needed' to be here. Not my business, I suppose – it's just nice to have someone new to practice with. The guys don't trust me – or they're crushing on me, or they're scared, whatever – and whilst Michelle's cool and all, I saw enough of her last time around to know her style inside-out. Jun, on the other hand, is new to all this, and I've never seen anyone fight quite like she does.

Still, though, if she can't take the sight of a little blood, she's in the wrong damn place. And she's still staring at my face like she's being forced to watch open heart surgery. "Are you sure? I mean, if you want, we can stop for a minute – I know first aid..."

"Ha. You wanna see _my_ fird aid?" 'Fird' – I sound like a tool. A quick look around – yep, there's those little reed things growing from the ground; snapping one off, I brace myself and jam one end of it up my left nostril. Jun's eyes widen in horrified realisation a second before I take a deep breath aaaand..._push!_

_Sklutch!_

"GOD - !" She's gone so white, her face matches her shirt. I just sniff experimentally – yup, no blockage. Hurts like hell, but I've done this before, so I know it'll pass.

"Works like a charm, if you've got the guts to do it. Now, where were we?" I'm about to get up when, somewhere across the field, a door slams open with authority. My head snaps around, almost completely by reflex – and my heart starts hammering against my ribs when I see _him_ walk out onto the mock battlefield. Kazuya Mishima. The man who won the previous tournament. The man who came back from the dead, apparently, for vengeance upon his father. The man who now runs most of the world, holding the financial and political nerve-centers of all major nations in a crushing choke-hold.

Also: the man I'm here to kill.

He doesn't look my way as he steps out to a space far away from Jun, me and the four or so other fighters practicing, his eyes heavy-lidded and expression apathetic, like he really doesn't care about any of this anymore. Good news, as far as I'm concerned – maybe he'll get lazy enough to drop his guard outside of the fights. Lee Chaolan, ever the underling, comes scurrying out in his wake and takes up position opposite him; even from here, I can see he's got a black eye and a fair few other blotchy, purple bruises on his exposed arms. Clearly, this isn't the first day he's had to serve as his sorta-brother's punching bag. I'd feel sorry if he wasn't such a prick in his own right.

No need to watch this. I turn my attention back to Jun – but her eyes are still drawn towards Kazuya, eyes which look...strange. There's no fear in them, which is the common reaction, and there's no hatred either. It's something else, something I don't have a word for. "You alright?"

She shakes her head wordlessly, still not looking at me, before heaving a sigh and dropping her gaze altogether. "It's nothing, it's...he's just...got a very intimidating sort of presence."

"Uh-_huh_." I finally push myself back up to my feet, and shake the stiffness out of my knees. "See, now I feel like _I_ should be the one asking if you wanna keep going..."

She blinks, then sends a wan smile my way. "Yes, I'm fine. Just one question, though."

"Mmm?"

"By doing this, you're essentially agreeing to show me your fighting style, before we _actually_ fight."

"And vice-versa."

"Well, yes, but you asked me first, so?"

"I get bored easily," I lie, instinctively, but...actually, why not tell the truth for a change? "Actually, it's...see, my dad told me something once, and it's stuck with me since then: 'Any magician can fool an unfamiliar audience, but a truly masterful magician can show you how he performs his tricks and yet still leave you spellbound.' If that makes sense."

She nods, chewing her lip. "I think I get it. So you think if you beat me, after showing me your 'tricks', it's more impressive?"

"Yeah."

"And vice-versa? If _I_ win?"

"Oh sure, _that_ could happen..." She giggles along with me there, which is a pleasant surprise; most people don't see the difference between me being cocky to maintain my image and me being cocky for the sake of amusement. We sober up and return to our preferred stances, me squaring my shoulders and raising open palms to head level, her spreading her feet and keeping her fists down at waist-height. "Okay, so you're 1-0 up on knockdowns. Let's make it 3 to win, and loser buys first round?"

A frown creases Jun's brow. "First round?"

Seriously? "Of drinks. We're hitting the bar after this."

"Oh no."

"Yes."

"But the tournament starts tomorrow – "

"Oh, everyone fights drunk on the first day. Even that wacko with the sword. Last time around, he stabbed himself twenty seconds into his first match. And he _still_ won." And that was the moment I lost all respect for ninjas. "Any more questions?"

"Nope. And in advance, mine's a tequila sunrise."

"And mine's a Jack and coke. Now, c'mon, baby – show me whatcha got..."

***THE PRESENT

No, I'm not telling you who won. Suffice to say, I never fought Jun in the actual tournament, since she dropped out before our scheduled match. That counted as a forfeit, so I proceeded by default, only to get ganged-up-on by a platoon of Tekken Force goons, who beat me down and dragged me to a dark, creepy underground lab, where Kazuya watched with obnoxious indifference as I was stripped bare, secured to an operating table and lowered into a vat of ice-cold water, and one of the last thoughts I had before the ice took everything away was _'Damn you, Jun, for getting me into this...'_ Of course, I know now that she dropped out because she figured out she was pregnant, and that...that, I can understand. And of course, her kid was Jin, who's been my main source of income for the past year, so it worked out quite nicely for me after –

"Are you just gonna sit there and _let me_ kick your ass or what?"

Oh, this little bitch did _not_ just snap me out of my internal monologue. "No,I don't think I will, actually," I respond drolly, pushing myself off the barstool, letting the rifle I procured from the Korean clatter to the floor and stepping around Asuka calmly, keeping my eyes locked on hers, just so she won't figure out what I'm up to. "What I _will_ do, though, is make you an offer."

She sneers at me with the kind of venom you only see from people who're just trying too hard. "I'm not interested in the offers of a murderer!"

"Okay, first, you really need to stop shouting. Second, here's the deal – leave now," I say, pointing towards the front door for emphasis, "and you'll wake up tomorrow feeling happy and healthy. Stay, and you'll be damn lucky to wake up at all. Your choice." C'mon girl, surprise me. Do the smart thing, for once...

An enraged, wordless shriek is the only response I get before she dashes towards me. I'm not surprised or disappointed by this, just...annoyed. Luckily, she still doesn't seem to have cottoned on to why I moved around her before starting – I back up a step from her opening left jab, and another, and the hopping front kick that follows, smirking as her face edges ever closer towards a beetroot hue. "Stop running away!" I don't respond, just in case she's brighter than she looks and gets suspicious about my confidence...that said, if she had _any_ intelligence to speak of she'd have already noticed I know how her moves flow, and would change her approach accordingly.

Another kick, this one a rather slick cartwheel, _very_ familiar, dodged – and yep, there's the wall pushing against my back. Asuka sees it too, and can't help but grin with triumph as she rears back – gotta time this perfectly, plant my hands firmly against the wall and – _NOW!_

_**Thwunk!**_

I almost felt the air being cut by her last kick as I tucked my head in and rolled to the right, leaving Asuka to ram her foot firmly against concrete. Her composure breaks as her eyes try to follow my movements, her mouth flapping open in silent protest, but as I return to my feet, ducked down behind her now, I feel no desire to stop before my hands dart out like blades, chopping across the calf of her right leg. She screams in pain and outrage as the limb gives way; not broken, but struck in a very sensitive spot, with enough force to pierce through the red mist in her mind, and maybe encourage her to rethink what she's doing.

As she curls up defensively around her leg, I nip back up to my feet and wait, a few steps away, alert but with my arms down and folded across my waist. Jun would never be outmanouevered so easily, but then, this isn't Jun. This little pretender might have inherited her moves, but she clearly didn't get her temperament; a self-defense art demands a clear head and infinite patience. Asuka seems to have neither. Lucky for her, she's caught me when I'm in a merciful mood...

"Little girl, you can't begin to understand just what your cousin did for the world, and I don't have the time to explain it all to you. Suffice to say, every breath that you drag into your lungs now is a gift from Jin, one he never expects to be repaid for – "

"Of course he doesn't," she interrupts me, her face twisted into a mask of agony, "since you got him KILLED!"

"Oh please, you think I'd kill the guy who was signing my paychecks? How stupid are y – "

She tries to take me by surprise, leaping to her feet and making an awkward lunge forwards while I'm still talking. I'm ready for her, though, and unfold my arms to chest height to deal with the punch she's gonna throw – wait, her hand's going high and – she grabs my _face?_ And sweeping my legs out –

"Guh!"

A sharp tendril of black-&-red pain blinds me as the back of my skull collides with the bare floor. Huh – that's a new trick. Credit where credit's due, even as I lash out with a kick from the prone position, connecting firmly with Asuka's back; my vision clears just in time to see her sprawl face-first behind me after overbalancing on her bad leg.

Seriously can't be bothered wasting any more time on this bitch. Before she can push herself up off her hands and knees, I snake both my legs around her already-softened-up one, and catch the ankle with my arms as she reflexively stiffens. She's shrieking something at me in her native tongue, but I don't worry about it, and focus all my efforts on leaning back and – _pull!_

Something gives way. I'm thinking dislocated kneecap plus a few torn tendons. Oh yeah, and there's screaming. Lots of screaming.

My grip slackens carefully – and Asuka's first response is to clutch frantically at her shredded leg, whimpering as tears run down her cheeks like waterfalls. I know the feeling all too well. Welcome to losing, little girl. Get used to it. Pulling myself back to my feet, I fold my arms and do my best to not look smug. Or not _too_ smug.

"Now, if you'd like to just lay there and listen for a moment, let me ask; have you ever had to make a difficult decision once in your short little life? A _really_ difficult decision, not just what colour bra to wear in the morning, or whether or not to enter the Iron Fist tourney." Because sweetheart, for you, with that attitude and that lineage, it's not so much a decision as an inevitability... "Jin has. He could've ruled the world forever, and I'd have helped him do it without complaining. But instead, he chose to die. You think _you_ could ever be that brave, little girl? Or do you keep lashing out blindly because you're too scared to make the tough decisions?"

I'm not sure if she heard me; she's just rolling back and forth, mewling like a lost kitten. Don't even know if she'd get the message if she _was _listening.

Enough time-wasting, where'd I put my gun - ? Ah, there. Stooping down to grasp the shoulder-strap, I pretend I don't hear Asuka getting her one good leg under her, or the deep breath she takes in as she psyches herself up for one last, stupid effort. Rolling my eyes, I try to remember a time when I was that young and angry, but..._nah. _I was never this dumb.

"Grrraaah!" she yells, for a half-second, before I step into her charge and drive the butt of the rifle's stock into her midsection. The deep _thwock!_ of the impact is satisfying, but just to hammer home my point, I follow through with a Shockwave Palm, which pushes through her tenderised abdominal muscles with ease; at least two ribs crumple inwards, and something warm and gelatinous is crushed under the pressure. She'll be passing blood for the next week, maybe two. I look up at her face as it looms over me, eyes ping-pong-ball wide and cheeks turning purple – and she spits on me. Why, you...shoving her off, I slip my finger into the rifle's trigger guard and level the weapon towards her forehead as she collapses on her ass, lingering long enough for her to get the point – _your life is in my hands now, and I'm a terribly jittery girl with butter-fingers._

I count thirty-two seconds of silence before she starts to whimper like a sick dog. Her spirit's broken, not an ounce of defiance left. It's always so easy with the young ones.

"Stop it, you're embarassing yourself," I growl out, letting all my irritation flow into my voice. God, if I hadn't specifically _promised_ Jin, no force on earth could stop me from squeezing the trigger and watching Asuka's skull split open down the middle. She's done more than enough to earn her just desserts. But I _did_ promise, and I don't betray my clients' trust, even after they're dead. So I lower the barrel and place the rifle down against the bar. Maybe one last plea for sanity before I leave...

"Bet that one's got you wondering, huh? Why doesn't she just kill me? Like I said before, every breath you take, every second you continue to live, is a gift from your cousin – so is this. Next time you open your mouth to talk shit about him, think back to what happened here and – "

The little bell above the door jingles. I roll my eyes. "We're not done yet, Yuji. You can have your cafe back when I leave."

"Who the hell is Yuji?"

American. Rough. Slight Brooklyn accent. Mid-40s. I know that voice. Bruce Irvin. Isn't he with G-Corp? Fuck.

I throw a high kick out as I pivot around to face him – but no, he's already stepped in close, and – "Uah!" – his knuckles strike me beneath the ribs with the force of a sledgehammer, followed by a knee, block the next one, Nina, c'mon –

_Crunch!_

Through the fog in my mind and the ringing in my ears, I feel my back hit the floor; must've taken a hard strike to the head. Crawling back without really thinking about it, I look up at Irvin's grinning face as he stands over me, hands on hips, clearly loving the authority he thinks his store-bought military fatigues give him. That Kazuya delegated command to a bum like this shows how much he underestimated Jin...and Irvin's lack of weaponry shows how much he's underestimated _me. _"You should've brought back-up, Bruce."

"Says the ho I just decked." What did he just call me - ? And he jerks his thumb over his shoulder, smile growing even wider. "And who says I didn't?"

With a foreboding hollow feeling in my gut, I peer around past the obnoxious bastard and – uh-huh, he _does_ have friends, to the tune of at least a dozen G-Corp soldiers, standing in the middle of the road outside, rifles levelled towards the cafe – or towards me, even. Okay, so maybe Bruce isn't a _complete_ idiot.

"So the boss, he's been hearing some funny things about you, and _now_ he wants you brought in alive, even after I put so much effort into killin' you all those times – "

"Yeah, and look how well that worked out for you," I shoot back as I steadily get back to my feet, not hurrying any one motion, just in case any of Irvin's friends have itchy trigger-fingers. "Of course, you know I've got no intention of making this easy for you, right?"

He rolls his shoulders and slaps one fist into the other palm, cracking his knuckles as he does so. "I was countin' on it. Figure beating the hell outta you'll go some way to getting back in the boss' good books – " "You mean the same 'good books' you got cut out of after I knocked you out last time we met?" He snarls, and takes a rushing step forward, and here comes the big rising knee, trying to target my diaphragm again – I skip in a semi-circle around it, throwing a sharp slap across the back of his head as I do so. It's enough to make him stumble and curse under his breath but little else – that's okay, all I'm trying to do is piss him off. He glares over his shoulder at me, takes a little skipping step forwards – the kind of obvious tell true professionals don't make – and throws an admittedly impressive leaping left-footed hooking kick, which I catch at the shin (also impressive, that) and twist to – he's not falling?

Looking to the side, I see he's got a firm hold on one of the diner's tabletops, and uses it to keep himself upright – that's actually pretty clever, for him. Wait, what's he – "Whuh!" – kicked with his other leg, caught me in the gut again. Couldn't stop myself from letting his other foot go, but did manage to throw myself to the floor – okay, fall to the floor – to avoid another strike like that.

"Aaah!" That wasn't me – oh, I fell on Asuka. Actually, there's an idea... "C'mere, princess," I grunt as I wrap one arm around her neck and drag her back up with me, holding her in front as a human shield.

Bruce doesn't even seem to notice the change until he's already struck Asuka with two sharp punches to the face, making the girl's head flop around limply. Then he barks a short, sharp laugh. "Aw, what's the matter, did I hit you too hard? Want to cuddle up close with your new girlfriend 'til the bad man goes away?" I don't respond. Let him believe whatever bullshit he spews for now. And of course, he makes no move to stop me as I put a little more space between us, dragging Asuka along – she's like a sandbag in my arms, Bruce's last shots must've knocked her out. "Well, if that's the way you wanna play," he continues, raising one arm above his head with three fingers outstretched, and the soldiers outside turn on their laser designators, flooding the cafe's interior with a dozen probing red beams, all sweeping towards Asuka and I, "then we'll just shoot right through the li'l Jap bitch and nail you, too. Kazuya's just gonna have to settle for a corpse." One finger goes down and I hear the rifles cock.

Lucky I expected this, huh? "Now, Bruce, I realise you're not the sharpest tool in the box, but think this through for a minute; this is a public place, it's broad daylight outside, and I'm not with the Zaibatsu anymore. This isn't warfare, this is G-Corp goons gunning down a couple of civilians. How well do you think that'll go with Kazuya's status as the world's 'saviour'?"

Checkmate, moron. Bruce's jaw twitches as he tries to think of a comeback, but the reality sets in after a moment; he knows I'm right. His arm lowers to his side, and he tilts his head to speak into a radio mounted on his vest. "Okay, so no guns."

"No guns for _you_, anyway," I add, as my outreached hand finally brushes against the stock of my stolen rifle. Before Bruce can do anything besides look shocked, I've got the rifle up against my hip, and squeezed the trigger – _badaba-bang!_

I keep watching just long enough to see Bruce fall, two smoking holes in his torso. The other shots flew wide of the mark, and the kevlar probably saved him, but what the hell, it'll buy me time. Dropping the rifle, I stumble back through the diner, keeping Asuka between me and the soldiers, who, stupidly, still don't shoot as they scramble in to give chase, breaking through the glass display windows – I risk a glance behind me, _there's_ the back door – c'mon, get out get out get _out – _

And we're out, barely. I push Asuka away; she groans as she collapses against a dumpster. "Wha...what happened?" Her squeaky voice wheezes.

"We had a team-up, you did great," I shout back across my shoulder as I climb up over a chain-link fence and drop down the other side, before running...running...hell, I don't know where I'm running, just...away.

**Author's Notes**

Hey, I thought it'd take much longer before I could put this chapter up! Luckily, I found some sort of muse, and blasted through the end of this one AND the whole of chapter 4 in record time. However, I'll be keeping number 4 to myself until 5 is written. That's just the way I roll.

In response to my first (and so far, only) reviewer, Aegis Khaos: Thank you for the kind words, sir! Glad you liked my spin on Nina; I've always viewed her as having a lot of pride in her skills and her upbringing, and as a direct extension, a great deal of disdain for everyone who doesn't meet her exacting standards. And yeah, I didn't want her to be driven by love or anything sappy like that. I mean, I do usually enjoy JinxNina stuff, but this story isn't the right place for it. And I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as the previous two.

Oh yeah, and before anyone says anything: no, I don't like Asuka very much. I'd rather not get into the reasons why. I don't have anything against Bruce, though; I just needed a visible G-Corp presence in this chapter, and didn't wanna waste Anna or Kazuya so soon.

**Next time:** Nina's escape takes her underground – literally – and forces her to endure the one type of circumstance she's never been prepared for...a heart-to-heart chat. Guest starring Ling Xiaoyu and Panda!


	4. Chapter 4: Nightmare Train

**The Last Command**

**Chapter 4: Nightmare Train**

G-Corp need better drill instructors; I've been running for six minutes flat and haven't heard those goons from the diner behind me _once_. Maybe they saw an ice-cream van and decided to take a break and have a snack. That'd be funny.

Quick choice – which direction, left, right, straight on? Anything standing out? Just more alleyways ahead, a boarded-up newsagent's to the left, and to the right...the subway? It runs to the outskirts of the city, which is where you were heading anyway, and you might as well admit it, girl – you _are_ getting a bit tired. And if they don't see you go in, they won't be waiting at the other end. Let's go with that, then. I dash across the street – _whoa_, sliding over the hood of a car I did _not_ see coming – and knock over an elderly couple before pushing through the stiff revolving doors at the station's entrance, ignoring the ticket booths – no money, and I'm in a hurry anyway – and vaulting over the security barriers. Instantly, some rent-a-cop puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Sorry, boys, but for me the law is optional," I say with an apologetic smile – and I mean it, too. It gives me no pleasure to beat up guys like this, guys so far beneath my level they're practically subterranean, but sometimes it has to be done. So I reach up, grab the guy's fingers and twist his arm around over my head as I turn to face him, before lashing out with a right kick that catches him right on the back of the head, sending his silly peaked cap flying as he hits the deck. His partner thinks he's got the drop on me, but I kick his shin out from under him, and as he stoops forwards, bring the point of my elbow down across his neck. He joins his friend on the floor. I keep going.

Down the stairs I go, three at a time, shouldering my way past the sorrowful travellers, their homes likely lost to the tides of war – and hallelujah, the train's just pulling up to the platform. Open the doors, open the doors, open – _ow_, damn things didn't open fast enough; I just ran straight into them. Squeezing through the still-small gap, I peer out through the windows...good, no soldiers. I heave a sigh of relief and slump down into the thinly-padded seating, easing the tension out of my neck as the carriage shudders around me and starts to move away from the station. Guess I might as well relax while I've got the chance; got another four stops to go before we're close enough to the city outskirts for me to make it the rest of the way on foot. Lucky I got a carriage to myself – hate it when you're stuck on a train next to a bunch of freaks...

"Heeeeeeyyyy, I know YOU!"

That voice sends shivers up my spine. No, no, _please_ no, let it be someone else...

"IT'S NINA!" shrieks Ling Xiaoyu as she plonks herself down beside me, dainty little plaid skirt flapping around as she wraps her arms around me in a hug, burying her thick head against my shoulder and making little 'squee' noises. Not again...

***HOKKAIDO, JAPAN

***THE IRON FIST TRAINING GROUNDS

***3 YEARS EARLIER

As the massive double-doors swing open, I'm left wondering again why I'm here, up high in the mountains of a country that almost certainly isn't my home. The high walls are topped with razor-wire, evenly punctuated by guard towers, each manned by...are those actually people? I saw some articles in newspapers on the way over about robots, how they're becoming cheaper and easy to mass-produce; they had a picture of a big one called, what was it, 'Gun Jack' that looked pretty intimidating. These ones in the towers aren't nearly so large, but they're armed, and the way their eyes glow is quite disconcerting. It all makes me want to just turn around and leave, but every time I do, I hear that voice again, the first voice I've ever heard –

"_**YOU WILL KILL JIN KAZAMA!"**_

And I can't take another step backward without my legs turning to jelly beneath me. No idea who 'Jin Kazama' is, only ever seen pictures of him – a bit younger than me, well-built, spiked hair, weird tattoo on one arm – and no idea what he's done wrong to deserve death. But apparently, it's not my job to care about those details; as if the knife, gun and concealed explosives that'd been left with the clothes – _my_ clothes – I'd found after waking up weren't enough of a clue, the receptionist that filed my application for this little tournament had it printed out in block capitals on my ID card – 'ASSASSIN'.

She also said "Welcome back, miss Williams." How did she know my name? It took me two hours to figure it out myself. And the fact that they knew my apparent career as well, and took my presence here for granted...I've been to this place before. Why can't I remember that? Why can't I remember _anything_ before waking up in a vat of freezing water, naked and cold and confused, my only company that echoing, hideous voice in my head. It forced me to drag myself up out of that tank, and somehow beckoned me onwards, guiding me out of the stainless-steel labyrinth, warning me away from the soulless men in suits; only a lone elderly man in a white coat tried to stop me, and when I drew my knife with shaking hands, he looked so sad, so...pitying, before he just slumped back down to his desk and turned his back as I left. In hindsight, I should have stuck around and tried to get some answers from him, but no, I...I was scared, had to run. The voice said I would only be safe if I followed its instructions – instructions which led me here.

"Well, let's see what this place's all about," I say to myself with a light tone that rings horribly false. As I shoulder my bag and step forward, I feel the ground beneath me shifting underfoot, and take a look; it's powdery, a mix of brown and pure white grains – sand doesn't look like that, right? Crouching down, I run my hands through it, then pinch a gram or so of the stuff between two fingertips and raise it to my lips – why does something so weird feel so natural to me? – and taste it...salt. Part sand, part salt. _To soak up the blood_, part of me adds. Funnily enough, that doesn't make me feel a whole lot more comfortable.

Shaking that thought from my head, I stand back up, smile at a guard giving me a funny look, and continue on across the courtyard. From every direction I hear shouts and cries, and looking around, I see men and women of many different ages, cultures and creeds engaging in unarmed combat practice, sometimes against dummies, sometimes pairing up to spar with each other. I focus on one, a curious man, large, tanned, wearing some sort of mask resembling a jungle cat, as he skips around a wooden dummy with rusted ball-joints, throwing out cautionary jabs before lunging forwards and blasting it across the face with a high kick – _duck that, step to the side_ – leaving him with his back to the dummy, but not defenceless, as he quickly swings his other leg around towards the dummy's crotch – _bring heel down across back of knee, render leg useless_ – wait, what am I thinking? How do I know that, whatever it is? Am I...

I'm here to fight. Hope I'm good at that.

Something – some_one_ – whistles at me. I look over my shoulder, to find a man staring at me; white, muscular, older than me by a good margin. He wears a ragged red martial arts suit – a gi, I think is the term – but his most distinctive feature is undeniably his hair, a thick brush of dirty blonde strands going almost straight up for almost a full foot above his head. It takes a lot of effort to tear my eyes away from it and look him in the face as he winks at me. "Lookin' good, sweetheart. Nice to see ya dress down for daddy, too..."

As he nods towards me, I suddenly feel like covering up; I hadn't thought there was anything wrong with the red vest and the leather pants when I'd put them on – sure, they wouldn't be much good in cold weather, but it's the middle of the summer, I just figured this was how every woman would be dressing. Evidently not, and I don't like the way this guy's looking at me, so I avert my gaze and keep walking, past the oddly-haired guy and his partner, and a...is that a bear?

"You're a GIRL!" Someone else squeals; I turn to face the voice and – "Whuh!" – this new person runs into me at high speed, wrapping their arms around my back just as their shoulder rams into my gut. A wave of seething, boiling red flashes through my mind and something sour fills my throat – but the attacker lets go before I can make a move, and stands back with their hands over their – _her_ mouth in shock.

"Oh noes! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, I'm just – it's all really, _really _exciting, this is my first time here, and-and-and I thought it was just me and Julia alone with all these big scary guys, and then you came in! YAY!" She hops up and down on the spot, clapping her hands together, and I can get a good look at her now; young, Asian, about the same height as me but more slim, black hair tied up in two bunches, wearing some sort of loose red outfit with a yellow belt, and luminous bangles at her wrists. Amongst the others in the courtyard, she seems out of place, purely by looking...harmless.

Now she's staring at me with her head tilted to the side and her lower lip sticking out in a childish pout. "I didn't hurt you much, did I?"

I smile, warmly and honestly for a change. "No, I was just shocked for a moment there. Didn't see you coming." She grins back, so widely it almost looks painful. "Goody! I'm Xiaoyu Ling, what's your name." "Nina, Nina Williams." Even now it still doesn't sound familiar to my ears. "Hi, Nina-Nina!" "No, it's just 'Nina' once." "But it sounds funner my way! Can I please call you Nina-Nina? _Please?_" Her enthusiasm is just so...infectious, I feel like laughing. In fact, I _am_ laughing. "Yeah, okay, Nina-Nina it is." Xiaoyu giggles, then hooks her arm around mine and starts dragging me along like...like an I-don't-know-what. "Cool! Lemme show you around, first we're gonna go to the fighters' quarters – it's like a little mini-hotel place, you'll already have a room reserved so you can drop off that bag, it must be real heavy! Then we can go around the arenas, and the meditation pool where that ninja guy always sits, and the gift shop where they sell those cute hoodies, and then we should probably think about getting some lunch..."

***THE PRESENT

Yeah, it's deja vu, right? In the 3 years that I've known her, Xiaoyu hasn't grown up, at all – still the same dainty ball of manic energy and unbridled curiousity, even through some very dark times. Me, though...when we first met, I was fresh from cryosleep, with a mind mostly emptied of all memory, running purely on instinct. That was my life for two years, until everything came back. Thank my sister for that. And in that moment, I changed from an overgrown infant into a forty-year veteran, and now the same giddy mannerisms I once found adorable just give me a massive headache. Like the one I've got right now.

"Aww, it's been soooo long since I've seen you! I missed you! So does Julia – well, she doesn't _say_ she misses you but I think she does. And it's so hard to be friends with that new blonde girl that's been showing up – she's such a meanie!" Xiaoyu still hasn't let go of me. She's very clingy. "Why d'you have to be so busy all the time? I had fun hanging around with you, and so did Panda! Didn't you, Panda?"

A grunt comes from my right, and I look over to see, yes, Panda sat there, gormlessly staring at me with its black eyes, its shoulders hunched and rear end parked across about three peoples' worth of seating. Just so we're clear here – this is an _actual panda bear_. Which Xiaoyu keeps as a pet. And she named it 'Panda'. This is another good reason why I try to avoid hanging out with her anymore.

"Well, that's great, Xiaoyu, but I'm kind of on an assignment right now, so – " And of course she misses the point like a champion and cuts me off. "Oooh, like a quest? A treasure hunt? Can I come along? I am SO good at map-reading! _And_ finding odd socks when they fall behind the dryer!" "No, not that sort of assignment, it's – did I ever tell you what 'wet-work' means?" She frowns and scratches her head in thought. "Is that when you go swimming?" "No, it's when I go killing." "You do what?" "_Killing, _Xiaoyu," I state firmly, pushing the girl away from me with one hand on each of her arms, fixing her with the most piercing gaze I can manage, "that's what I do. I'm an assassin. I murder bad people at the command of other, worse people."

She just sits there in shock for a minute, even as the train pulls up at another platform, the doors sliding open then closed again without any new arrivals. "You...you kill..." Maybe it was wrong to tell her that. Even with a war tearing the world apart around her, I doubt notions like mortality and the evil that men do have ever crossed Xiaoyu's mind, and those can be pretty hard truths to swallow the first time. But, hell, everyone has to grow up eventually. "Yes, Xiaoyu. I'm a killer." "A-and...and Jin, he's..." Uh-oh. How did we get onto the Jin topic? This isn't going where I want it to... "Calm down, now, girl, it's – "

But she's up out of her seat, tears welling up in her eyes, shoulders shaking, and then she _screams_ – "YOU KILLED JIN!" I've never heard her scream before. It's a shrill, panicked sound, like a lone deer with a fresh bullet-wound in its flank, and I...I feel guilty. It's been a long time since I've felt that way. God knows murder doesn't faze me anymore; getting used to the feeling of someone's blood on your hands was one of the first things Dad taught me. But this, right here...I just stole a little girl's innocence. You never taught me how to deal with that one, Dad.

And of course, there's the whole 'thing' Xiaoyu has...or had...for Jin. She saw...she always saw through the enigma, or the dark cloud that Jin chose to hide his true nature behind. He was never any less than a knight in shining armour in her eyes, even when he ignored her completely; how she's ever been able to handle his death, I can't begin to fathom. But now I've brought those feelings to the surface, god help me.

"I can't...you...do you have any idea what this FEELS LIKE?" She's still screaming, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks now. "Xiaoyu, please, just let me – " "You heartless BITCH!" "Just – " "I should kill YOU!" She lunges forward, making a wild grab for my knife – dammit, I can't hurt her, I just have to grab both her arms and hold them out to the sides, and stand up again, bracing my strength against hers, not to mention moving the both of us further down the carriage, away from her panda and its claws... "LISTEN TO ME! I worked for Jin for the whole last year! I was his bodyguard – I was _protecting _him! Please..." Her struggles have weakened, the initial wave of fury now giving way to pure grief, so I lower my tone accordingly. "Please believe me." "Buh-but..." She sniffles, her breath coming in sharp gasps. "If you wuh-were protecting him...why's he...why did he die?"

"He thought he had to," I say in a voice now little more than a listless drone, "he thought he was saving the world." I can't bring myself to add any conviction to that statement, because right now, in this place, with a sobbing, broken shell of a girl in front of me...I don't think it was worth it.

"I d-don't care about the world anymore," she chokes out, her head now sagging down under the weight of her own depressing thoughts, "it's nuh-nothing without him..." She's not resisting anymore. I let go of her arms – then, as she threatens to sink to the floor, wrap mine around her slim, shuddering shoulders and pull her in close to me. "I know, Xiaoyu, I know. But you have to try. Jin gave his life in exchange for yours. For the sake of his memory...if you really care about him...just _live_."

I don't know why I just said that. I don't know what I'm doing. It's just...it's instinct.

We stand together like that for a minute or so, as her sobs slow down and begin to subside. Then something warm and fluffy grows around my gut; I think for a horrifying moment that I'm starting to go soft, but then I hear a familiar grunting moan, and look around to find Panda with his arms wrapped gently around both of us, and his snout resting on Xiaoyu's head. She shakes a little as a chuckle rises through her throat. "Well...if Panda says you're right, I'll go with that."

The train starts to slow again, and Xiaoyu's hands press gently against me; I take the hint and drop my arms just as she murmurs, "it's our stop, Panda." She steps away and lets the bear wipe her eyes dry with its big black-&-white paws, then heads for the door as it slides open – and stops with one foot out and one foot in. "Thank you, Nina-Nina," she says in a voice barely higher than a whisper, "and good luck." Then she skips out the door, followed by Panda, missing my uncomfortable attempt at a wave. There goes my one and only link to a normal life...

But, just as this train rolls on past the station, so does the mission. And I can't afford the luxury of anything resembling a 'normal life' until it's over.

***FIVE MINUTES LATER

Finally, my stop. I tap my foot impatiently as the train crawls to a halt and the door slides open, then stride confidently out across the platform, giving the scattered few civilians a cursory glance as I go, though none of them seem like anything out of the ordinary. Unless I read the map back at Yuji's place completely wrong, there's a couple of private airfields about 30 miles from this place; I can make that kind of distance on foot by nightfall, barely, although it'd be best to wait 'til dawn before stealing a plane and getting off this damn island.

"Nina Williams?"

At the top of the steps leading up to the surface stands a single man, a soldier, in full battle armour. I look over my shoulder and, unsurprisingly, he's got three buddies backing him up, sealing off my route to the platform I just came from. Not even one of them brought a rifle, though. Can't tell if that's sloppiness or a result of underestimating me. Either way, it won't be that hard to beat all four of them – and that's when I notice the insignia on the armour. A lion's head. "You guys with Lars?"

"_Captain Alexandersson_ sent us to retrieve you, miss Williams," the guy in front says, a slight tone of pompous snark detectable in his voice even through his helmet's filters. "He has requested your presence at our command centre."

'Request', he says, not 'order'. How polite. At least I can turn it down without a fuss – although...Lars has a pretty damned impressive military force to call on, and I need untraceable passage to Russia. Surely the big Swedish idiot could spare me a plane, right?

"Yeah, sure. Okay. Take me to your leader, boys."

**Author's Notes**

Well, my plan to always stay one chapter ahead is now officially off; chapter 5 is taking a bit too long for my liking, so in the interests of not leaving you folks waiting a needlessly long time, I've jumped the gun and put this one up before finishing 5. Ah well, never could stick to a schedule anyway.

Anyway, this chapter...I originally meant for this one to be funny, but somehow, as I wrote it, it became almost a melodrama. Not sure how that happened, but I do rather like the end result. And yeah, I've done two flashbacks in the space of two chapters now, and both were set in the same place, albeit at different times. Another totally unplanned thing, and I promise chapter 5 won't bother with such a mechanic. Or at least it won't be set in the same place.

When writing Nina's T3-era thoughts, I deliberately chose not to make her seem like she was under mind control from Ogre, even though the original bio for Nina in that game said she "acted robotically" in pursuit of Jin. I've never really bought into that, mostly because Nina's fighting style and (more importantly) intro/win animations remained the same as they were in T1 and T2. Granted, that was probably just laziness on the developers' part, but...well, it's my story, and if I want to retcon stuff based on, essentially, a glitch, then I bloody well will! Plus, mind-controlled people have no interesting thoughts, so writing her in that style would be a pain. Instead, I chose to emphasise the, I suppose, innocence brought on by her amnesia, and have Ogre's control be limited to a kind of echoing thought that somehow compels Nina to follow its demands.

Oh yeah, and Xiaoyu...hmm. Y'know, I used to hate her too, back during T3 and TTT, mostly because kung-fu schoolgirls are a serious pet-peeve for me. I just dislike the idea of some skinny, idiotic teenager, who only studies martial arts in their spare time, fighting competitively (and often _winning_) against serious, obsessive martial artists a la Baek, Paul, and Law, or against characters like Nina or Bryan who, whilst not pure martial artists, are badass for all sorts of other good reasons. That said, time has mellowed my feelings here, so whilst I still don't play with Xiaoyu (too many stance changes), I do find her quite funny. Changing her story from just being a competitive brat who's chasing her dreams to becoming Jin's creepy stalker and trying/failing to save him/the world definitely helped in that sense, even if it did sadly give birth to all that Xiaoyin dross that clogs up this site like tar in a chain-smoker's lungs...but that rant is for another time.

Anyway – reviewers! I've had another two! Well, another one, technically, because the other one is the same guy as last time, but it sounds more impressive if I say two.

**LuvDuchess: **Thanks! And yeah, I've never bought Nina as being quite the same one-dimensional bitch that many other writers seem to take her as. No, she's not the friendliest girl, but she has depth; she isn't pure evil or anything. Hope you enjoyed this chapter too.

**Aegis Khaos: **You again? I kid. Yeah, I kinda let my own personal biases bleed into the story there, which in retrospect is probably quite immature...but yeah, I can't stand Asuka. That said, I'm trying to be more even-handed with the 'guest stars' from this point on, so hopefully you won't see many recognisable faces being reduced to a pulp without at least making a good impression first. Glad you liked the scene with Jun as well. I felt that could be a little risky, since Jun's almost the polar opposite of Nina and there's never been any real connection between the two – but the way I see it, Nina wouldn't automatically hate someone providing they're neither stupid nor her current target, and Jun's kind of...naturally sociable, a friend to everyone. Hopefully, I managed to make that clear.

Wow, that was a HELL of a lot more notes than I'd intended to put here. Hope it didn't bore you.

**Next Time: **Nina's forced to stray from her path and confront a man she had no desire to ever see again – can she stick to the plan, or will her own feelings, mixed with her killer instincts, force her to bring the whole operation crashing down in flames...and with it, the world? Guest-starring Lars Alexandersson and Alisa Bosconovitch!


	5. Chapter 5: Best of Enemies

**The Last Command**

**Chapter 5: Best of Enemies**

Even though I'm a loner by nature, I will admit that there _are_ advantages to travelling with company.

Picking an example right now, there's the fact that rather than running through the streets, wearing myself out and staying out in the open until a lucky sniper plants a bullet in my leg, I'm sat down inside a well-armed APC along with five idealistic morons, handy in case I need a meat shield – oh, sorry, I mean 'back-up'. The only downside is, I'm not the one doing the driving, and they're getting me sidetracked solely because their precious commander wants to shoot the breeze with me. Somehow I doubt I'll enjoy that, but at least he's not out to kill me. That puts him slightly above Heihachi, Kazuya, my darling sister and, ooh, most of the world's population right now on my Facebook friends list. If I had one of those.

"So," I venture, "how's life for you guys?" Two of them incline their heads towards me slightly, just to fix me with the weird red stare from their helmets' illuminated optic systems, before looking away again without a word; the other three don't even acknowledge me that much. "Yeah, it's been pretty crap for me too." God, these guys are so dull. Y'know what makes me more of a professional than they'll ever be? I can relax. I can put my feet up, have a glass of wine and share a couple pithy jokes, and yet _still_ shoot more accurately, fight harder, and screw up less than little boy soldiers like these clowns, who waste so much time focusing on making the one task directly in front of them go off without a single hitch they don't even notice all the opportunities and impending hazards flying past in the corner of their eye.

Where are we now, anyway? I crane my neck and peer out through the perspex lens that fills a gap in the vehicle's hull; outside there's a warehouse, another warehouse, a crane...another warehouse. Either we're near the docks or some sort of industrial park. Most companies shut their doors after the war started; with the two greatest earners on the Fortune 500 slinging tanks at each other, there wasn't much hope for their contemporaries to make any kind of profit, so the bosses went home to drink themselves silly, or maybe throw themselves off high towers, and places like this became massive ghost towns. Exactly the sort of place to hide an army, if you happen to have one.

"Home-1, this is escort group Heimdall," comes a voice from the drivers' seat – my god these guys use stupid codenames. "We are on final approach, and area is clear. Pop the hatch." Curious, I push up and out of my seat and peek over the driver's shoulder as the doors swing open on yet another warehouse, revealing its bare-bones interior, scaffolding and covered boxes, coloured by thin streaks of pale light emerging from dirty windows near the roof. There's nobody home. "Somehow, I was expecting more people, maybe something a little more _Mission: Im –_ " My voice catches in the back of my throat as, through the front windshield, the nose of the APC...vanishes. As do the wheel arches, and more and more of the vehicle disappears, like it's passing through an invisible curtain...and then it's inside the vehicle, and passing over me. Oh, wow.

"..._Impossible_," I murmur as a whole new chamber appears before my eyes in a moment; far larger than the interior of any warehouse I'd expect to find around here, and much more high-tech too, with glossy black floors and sloping walls with minimalist white markings, holding racks of light aircraft in place. Along the floor rests row after row of mean-looking tanks and artillery, the kind of stuff that got me all foamy at the mouth when I was a kid. Every other girl begged their daddies to pay for pony-riding lessons, I wanted to go see air shows and war museums. Oh yeah, and there's _him_. Waiting for me already, punctual as ever. Goody.

"The captain will see you now." Yes, thankyou, I can see that. Dragging my eyes away from the windshield, I step back through to the passenger area and hop out through the open side hatch, my heels _click_ing sharply against whatever the floor's made of. Looks like marble. Much like everything else, it's a bit up-market for a guerrilla operation. I wipe any trace of slack-jawed awe from my face as Lars Alexandersson, dressed as usual in red-&-black battle armour and a split cape, approaches me, an expression of slight distaste on his face. "Miss Williams."

Before I go on, there's something you should know: Lars and I have never gotten along. In fact, the very first time we met was when he marched over to me in a hangar not entirely unlike this one and slapped me across the face. Yeah, _slapped_, not punched. I swear, if Jin wasn't there that day, keeping a restraining hand clamped firmly on my shoulder, I'd have torn this asshole's spiky head off. And you know what had made him so pissy? He'd lost five men defending a communications post from G-Corp mechanised infantry, something which I'd made _quite clear_ in my briefing would cost us a hell of a lot more than five lives if he'd screwed it up. But therein lies the problem, and the main point of difference between Lars and myself; he's got no capacity for dealing with loss. He gets attached to every soldier under his command, taking them in like they're family, then blubbering away like a soap-opera housewife when they die. And they _always_ die. It's war. That's what happens. Apparently, Lars skipped that part of drill instruction. Whereas me, I learned it before I'd finished primary school.

So, in summary, Lars is exactly the sort of person I have no time or respect for in this world. An optimist.

"Oh, we're not on first name terms yet? Or is this just your way of getting me to call you 'Captain'?" His scowl deepens at that. I don't care; making peace with this dweeb isn't high on my 'to do' list right now. "So why the snatch-&-grab in broad daylight? Didn't think I'd be such a big deal with Jin out of the picture. And how did you find me, anyway?"

"Hardly a 'snatch-&-grab', Nina, it was just a request. I told my men to leave you be if you didn't want to come. As for tracking you, well..." At that moment, a shrill whine of powerful engines fills the air, and a small, impossibly cute pink-haired girl, looking like she got dressed in the dark by a blind tailor, zips down from somewhere near the roof and lands gently beside Lars, smiling faintly as long steel air intakes fold into her back. Alisa Bosconovitch, the wacky robot girl. Of course. Must've been flying above me for the past hour or two. I give her a curt nod.

"Hiya, tinface."

"Greetings, miss Williams, N. You appear to be suffering acute stress at this time. Would you care for some tea?"

Gritting my teeth, I shake my head 'no'. Whilst I wouldn't say I _hate_ Alisa per se, she can be a little hard to take sometimes. Most times, in fact. Typical of scientists, they focus all their energies on creating the perfect humanoid body for their robot – which just so happens to be the body of a well-proportioned teenage girl, to the surprise of absolutely no-one – and only spend about two hours on trying to give it sensible, human speech patterns.

"Anyway, miss – " Lars tries to smile, and fails. "_Nina_. Care to walk with me?"

"Not much else to do around here..." I let him lead on, noting that Alisa follows behind me at a distance and angle where she's out of both my eyesight and my reach, a very astute move on her part – it's the kind of thing _I'd_ do in her place. Another reminder of how dangerous robo-girl can be, just in case I somehow forget the chainsaws in her arms. Focusing on Lars instead, I note the way he swings his arms and keeps his shoulders square as he walks, occasionally reaching back to give his cape a little tug, or looking over his shoulder to see whatever I'm looking at. I just stare back blankly, refusing to play this little game. He's trying to send me a message, probably something like _'look at how small you are compared to everything else here'_, maybe a _'you're in over your head'_, or even a _'check out my awesome hardware, girl – fancy spending some quality time in the back seat of daddy's tank?'_ Hopefully not that last one, since Lars already has a girlfriend...

Of sorts.

"I must admit, I panicked earlier when I saw, what was it, 200 or so APCs heading out from Gargoyle Tower," he calls back over his shoulder, "and then nearly had a coronary when their transmissions came through, in the clear, begging for a ceasefire. Have I got you to thank for that?"

"Jin, actually." He stops mid-stride, and even without seeing his face, I can tell he's scowling at nothing in particular, jaw clenched tight. Just like the last time I saw him, back at the temple in Egypt, what did I say then? _"It's not for me to judge if Jin was right or wrong. Maybe you're such a saint, if you think you can, but somehow, I doubt it."_ Oh, he did _not_ take that well.

"Jin's dead. You don't have to follow his orders anymore."

"Maybe, but..." No way am I telling Lars, of all people, how I got suckered into doing this. Too much like a sign of weakness. "This was pretty much his last will and testament. It'd be rude of me not to see it through."

"Uh-huh." Don't think he's buying it. He turns to fix me with a scrutinising stare – okay, he's definitely not buying it. "And you'd do that for any dying man you happen across on your travels."

"Most of the dying men I meet are my victims, not my employers."

"And that makes a difference?"

"As a matter of fact, yes it does. Got a problem with that?" Of course he does. Lars wouldn't let _anyone_ die, or at least try not to, and then have a histrionic fit when he realises that decision's out of his hands. Makes me wonder if he's ever lost anyone truly close to him. Maybe then he wouldn't be so quick to judge me.

He snorts dismissively, folding his arms across his chest with what he probably intended to be nonchalance, an effect spoiled by the effort needed to get his plated forearms around that incredibly dumb sculpted lion's head bust sticking out of his breast. "Arrogant as ever. Nevertheless, although it did take some quick emergency re-positioning so this base's location wasn't compromised by any arrivals touching down here, we now have the largest army in the world ready to deploy. An army consisting for the most part of men so thoroughly 'conditioned' they're little more than robo – " He blinks, and shoots a nervous glance over my shoulder, no doubt to Alisa, " – than zombies, mindless drones. I don't think they'd even remember to eat without someone telling them to."

"No, they won't. You'll have to organise some sort of alarm to summon them to the mess hall."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Nope. It's your legacy for turning renegade, Lars. You reap what you sow" That _is_ how you use that phrase, right?

"There you go again..." He raises one hand to his face and – he facepalmed me? Rude bastard. "Why did you even bother to come here, Williams? Is aggravating me _that_ important to you?"

"Nope, just an added bonus." Still, that 'bonus' may be growing old. About time I got down to business. "I need to get to Russia without Heihachi's goon squad noticing. Figure you'd have access to transportation that's a little more discreet than an Air-Asia jumbo jet."

"I might, but why should I help you?"

"Self-preservation. If I get caught, your newfound military advantage goes down the drain, and all your precious moral values won't be worth shit when Kazuya starts making a serious move against you. And don't tell me you've been doing well so far – you've survived this long purely because your little gang hasn't been enough of a threat to warrant the full attention of either the Zaibatsu or G-Corp. That's all changed now. Kazuya's going to be breathing down your neck by the end of the week, and if Heihachi finds me, the Tekken Force'll be back under his control. But if you can get me to Russia, quickly, I can make the change irreversible. So it's either help me, or wind up imprisoned. Or dead." My cheeks feel flushed with the emotion I put into those words. When it comes to convincing people to see things my way, I prefer to just hold a gun to their head and say everything quietly and calmly, looking them straight in the eye and making it very clear that I am a woman they do _not_ want to fuck with. Sadly, taking that option with Lars wouldn't work so well because...well...because he's fucked with me before and gotten away with it. Not like _that_, I mean; just that, not so long ago when he was trying anything possible to get to Jin and I was equally determined to not let him or anyone else get close, we had a fight, and he kinda, maybe, sort-of _possibly_ beat me.

_Barely._

My fault, really. A couple days earlier, Jin and I had been watching the video-feed of Lars' confrontation with Heihachi, during which Lars revealed Heihachi to be his biological father, thusly making the bastard yet another goddamn Mishima spawn. Jin didn't seem to be all that surprised, but me...well, up 'til that point I'd put Lars' survival down to mere luck, or the sheer stupidity of the opposition he'd come up against. But if he was a Mishima, the skill of his opponents wouldn't have mattered. It never does, not against them. And I stupidly kept telling myself that, right up until I threw my first kick at the back of his head. If I hadn't let my nerves got to me, if I hadn't been so _weak_, he'd have been down and out before he knew what hit him, and Jin would never have had to rely on this idiot post-mortem. Instead, I fluffed my shot, got pounded into the dirt, and now this guy's trying to make me beg. Screw him.

Lars continues to stare at me for another few moments, like he's waiting for my composure to suddenly break – not gonna happen – before jerking his head back, indicating the far wall, where a line of small, single-pilot interceptor jets, a model I can't recognise, are mounted on heavy industrial racks from the floor to the ceiling. "One of those will suffice. The F-58 Sky-Sweeper."

"Cute. Did you have to pay for those, or did Lee throw them in as freebies after he handled the decor in here?"

"How'd you know it was him?"

"Minimalist and trendy, yet still ostentatious. That's _so_ Lee." I smirk, more at surprising Lars than any memory of Lee – memories which I'd rather have excised from my brain with a rusty spoon, _god_ that guy's a creep – and walk away towards the jets...or, maybe I only take two steps before Lars speaks up again.

"Why ask?"

Ask what? What's he dribbling about _now?_ Putting my hands on my hips, more for effect than anything else, I turn back to face him, preparing some withering sarcasm and...he's offering me a gun. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You could've just walked off that transport, put a bullet in my head, dealt with Alisa somehow and stolen one of the planes before anyone else could lift a finger to stop you. And if my measure of your character – or lack thereof – is on the money, you'd enjoy it too." The gun remains outstretched, while Lars continues to stare at me, almost like he's daring me. "Feel free to take the chance now. I won't stop you – "

_Ch-chik._

Don't. Don't do it, girl, it'll make all the effort you've put into this job so far a complete waste, will get _another_ large-scale military outfit chasing you across the globe, and is just the sort of immature, over-emotional bullshit move Dad taught you never to succumb to.

But you _could_ get away with it. Alisa's fast, sure, and she's already on standby judging by the worried expression on her plastic face, but she's not faster than a bullet, and I've seen her fight enough to know how to avoid those saws of hers. There aren't that many other soldiers in this hangar, certainly not enough to even make you break a sweat. And it's _Lars_. You want to squeeze the trigger, you want that bullet to fly straight and true into his brain, you want him to die _just_ for looking down on you because you don't meet his high-and-mighty moral standards...go on. Do it. You'll never get a chance this good again.

"Tempting offer, Lars..." Beyond the thick red fog of bloodlust swirling through my mind, I can hear my voice straining through a throat instantly turned dry. My inner turmoil seems to be showing all too clearly through my mannerisms, even Lars, thick-skulled, unobservant moron that he is, has his eyes widened and brow knotting in concern, like he's...afraid what I might do next...

And suddenly, the fog lifts. Letting go of a breath I didn't feel myself take, I turn the pistol around in my hand and pass it back to him, letting my eyes drop away from his gaze as I do. "Not today." I suppose I could point out that Lars being dead would leave a massive hole in Jin's plan for the new world, but really...all I needed was to see that look on his face. To know that _he_ knows every breath he takes is a gift I've permitted him. To know that, behind all the bravado, he's a little bit scared of me. That'll do.

"Target blood pressure and respiration returning to within normal levels," pipes up Alisa in her chirpy teenager's voice, "muscles and tendons relaxing. Thankyou for not terminating Captain Lars, subject Williams, N. This unit expresses its relief and happiness." She tilts her head to one side and smiles with such sweetness I can taste sugar.

"Is she supposed to sound like that?"

"No, but she took some nasty hits back in Egypt, and I think something came loose in her head. Probably should send her back to Chaolan for a check-up." Lars seems to be purposefully avoiding my gaze as he fumbles with the handgun, replacing it in its holster on his belt, before turning sharply on his heel and quick-marching towards the jets. "So, yes – Alisa, prep one of the Sky-Sweepers, please." I hurry after him, and hear Alisa's dorky shoes pattering along the floor behind me as a klaxon starts to blare from somewhere overhead. Within moments, a single jet is pulled free from the wall, carried by hydraulic arms that had previously laid flush with the floor panels, and placed gently onto its landing skis barely twenty feet away. Despite what I said earlier about Lee, I'll give him some credit now – the guy knows how to make a cool plane. The canopy stretches almost the full length of the cockpit, allowing for greater visibility without spoiling the aerodynamic shape of the hull. Massive air intakes power equally large engines, which look capable of driving a far larger craft but doubtless allow this one to go like hell. The wing-tips fold up nice and tight against the intakes so it stores more neatly, not to mention can land in tighter spaces. And it's packing two .50-cal machine-guns and six of the new Starfire missiles under the body. Painted in sky blue, too. Matches my outfit nicely.

"Engine warm-up commencing, please stay back from the vehicle's afterburners." Alisa drones through her pre-flight checklist as I leave her behind, reaching out to run my fingers across the jet's hull – it's so new it actually _squeaks_ under my touch. "Armaments check complete, no faults. Fuel check running...fuel check complete, tank 98% full. Electronics check..."

"The navigation system can guide you to almost any destination on the planet without any problems, or so Mr. Chaolan has assured me." Lars reaches into the now-open cockpit and removes a helmet, which he casually tosses my way. I catch it carefully, noticing how heavy it feels in my hands. "Just say 'location' then the place once the HUD is ready."

Slipping the helmet over my head, I'm almost immediately – "Gah!" – blinded by the staggering volume of gibberish text that skims across the visor, too fast for any of it to be legible. "It's not gonna look like I'm running a virus checker the whole time I'm flying, is it?"

"Give it a minute and it'll clear up. Are we all set, Alisa?"

"All checks complete and cleared. Lift-off is approved!"

"Well, that sounds simply _optimal_, doesn't it?" I smirk to myself, confident that Alisa either didn't hear me or can't figure out how sarcasm works, then get one leg up on the jet's steering fin and pull myself up into the cockpit, shifting around in the seat until the padding feels comfortable – and lo and behold, the visor's cleaned itself up nicely. Now it's just saying 'WELCOME. DESTINATION?'.

Lars' hand tightens around my arm. Knew he wouldn't let me go without a little more bullshit. "You were saying before, about Heihachi – if his coming after me is a bad thing, why is it so much better for him to be chasing you?"

"Because, Lars, so long as I can make myself dead before he gets the chance to capture me, he still loses. If he kills you, _everyone_ loses. According to Jin, anyway. Plus, y'know..." I throw him a smile which I hope looks as crazy as I feel for saying this. "I just _love_ being the centre of everyone's attention."

He shakes his head with a chuckle, then pulls the canopy down over my head until it _clunk_s into place, sealing off the rising whine from the engines. I look away as I strap the breathing apparatus across my face, and wrap one hand around the control stick, mentally ticking off the functions each and every plane ever made has, _power, pitch, yaw and roll_...I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

At the far end of the hangar, the door my previous transport entered through slides open to its fullest extent, the edge of the hologram field shimmering beyond it. A quick tap on the green switch highlighted in my HUD and the wings fold down into place.

'WELCOME. DESTINATION?'

"Location, Yakutsk." Nice little town. I pretended to work at their Academy of Sciences for a few months back in the day, purely so I had a plausible reason to hang around while I flirted my way into the trust of a particularly sleazy dean of studies, who'd been getting awfully close to a student thirty years his junior, whose father happened to be a bigshot with the Mafiya. Oh, happy days.

'DESTINATION ACCEPTED. PLOTTING COURSE NOW.'

Twin dotted lines fade into view before my eyes, pointing the way straight out through the open doors. I look out the window and give a quick thumbs-up, returned by Lars, who I'm suddenly hoping doesn't expect me to return this baby in one piece. Gripping the throttle with a grin, I give it a gentle push forwards and whisper, "let's see what you can – "

And the rest of my words are forced back down my throat as the jet takes off like a greyhound, pushing my head back against the seat with the power of more g-forces than I can count. The world blurs into an impressionist's painting around me as I pass through the hologram and streak into the bright and cloud-free sky, and it's all I can do to keep this pint-sized rocket staying true to the guideline still painted across my visor.

So long, Heihachi. Next stop, Icebergsville, Russia...

**Author's Notes**

Blah, that took some doing. I'll be up-front and honest with you, folks – this is not my favourite chapter so far. Possibly my least favourite, in fact. I'm not sure how well I sold the tension between Nina and Lars, and beyond that it was just a big protracted excuse to get Nina some form of transport that could plausibly take her to Russia from Japan in fairly little time. Also, not much action, which makes two 'slow' chapters in a row. Not a great trend. On the plus side, the next one should be more exciting.

Lars is a character I'm fairly ambivalent about, mainly because he's so damn _manufactured._ Really, there's no good reason for his existence beyond the fact that T6's Scenario Campaign needed a central good-guy character and they couldn't use Jin. Ergo we get Lars, who fits much the same mould that Jin used to; seemingly flawless goody-two-shoes, pretty enough to make fangirls swoon at thirty paces, silly hair, and of course he's a Mishima, because sadly, nobody would ever believe he could conceivably beat pretty much every other character in the game if he wasn't part of that bloodline. The fact that they made him amnesiac and it didn't make his personality any different at all speaks volumes, I believe. Still, he can make for an interesting supporting cast member. Alisa, on the other hand, is a brilliant, _brilliant_ character that I wish I could spend more time with here. She's probably the only 'cute girl' in Tekken that is _actually _cute, and her mix of dainty mannerisms and uncomfortable killer robot speech patterns cracks me up.

Anyway – reviews! I got two more, so let's go over them.

**MrsJinKazama** – Love your work, by the way. I know I've posted a couple of reviews on some of your stories that seem awfully critical, but please don't let that get you down. Also, wow! That's some mighty big praise right there! And again, it's nice to hear that people like the way I've been writing Nina thus far. Hope this chapter lived up to your expectations!

**Aegis Khaos** – What are you, my stalker? Heh. Yeah, I'm running out of things to say back to you, too. But it's good to know you didn't think I went too far with the last chapter – at times, I did feel that I'd maybe softened Nina up a little too much. Still, I do stand by my belief that Nina won't automatically react with violence to every situation, and is capable of being kind and sociable, at least when in the right company.

Also, if you've read this far without falling asleep (good for you!) and you're wondering when _your_ favourite character is going to appear, if they haven't already, do feel free to ask! Yes, that _is _a rather cheap attempt to get more reviews posted. Don't judge me.

**Next time:** Progress at last! Nina finally tracks down the first of the Zaibatsu computer nodes within the barren wastes of Siberia, but she's not the only cold-blooded killer stalking through the snow tonight! Guest starring – to no surprise whatsoever – Sergei Dragunov!


	6. Chapter 6: Cold War

**The Last Command**

**Chapter 6: Cold War**

'2,000 METRES TO DESTINATION. BEGIN DESCENT NOW.'

"Alright, alright, keep your hair on," I mutter irritably, pulling myself out of the slight stupor I'd fallen into after a so-far uneventful flight and peering out of the canopy. The glimpses of the ground below I catch in the cracks between clouds look the same as they did on my way into Yakutsk, where I took a pit-stop while figuring out how to set the navicomputer to accept specific co-ordinates rather than place names. Plus, I needed to go to the ladies' room. Oh, don't look at me like that, you know how long I've been on the move for without stopping? I'm not a machine. I just do a good impression of one.

'1,900 METRES TO DESTINATION. BEGIN DESCENT IMMEDIATELY.'

Okay, _okay._ I push the control stick forwards to tilt the nose down, before Geoff gets any more irritable with me…

Yeah, I gave the plane a name. It's been like a loyal little donkey, or a pony, and if I'd had a pony when I was younger, I'd have called it Geoff.

…Anyway. The clouds part like curtains ahead of me, and still all I can see is white, a gently rolling sheet of white moving under me, like a giant treadmill. Of course, this is Siberia – you don't get much else here apart from snow. Couple the adverse conditions to the realization that any blotch on the sparse landscape can be picked up by satellite observation with ease, and you're left with little incentive for any discerning superpowers to build anything of importance here…at least, not on the surface. Or not without a convincing disguise. Something like, I don't know…something like that dark structure suddenly looming in the distance. I can make out a long, thick cylinder jutting out from either side – an old oil pumping station? Smart. A relic now, thanks to the world finally outgrowing fossil fuels and settling on nuclear and geothermal power solutions, but since tearing the things down was too much trouble for fairly little gain, it's not unusual to see them still standing.

'DESCENDING TO 800 METRES…'

Now this is where it gets interesting. I've got skis for landing gear, on a surface that offers virtually no traction, there's no way I can possibly slow down to what most pilots would call a safe speed before touchdown, and if I don't slow down fast enough after landing, I'll plow straight into my intended destination.

'DESCENDING TO 600 METRES…'

The countdown really isn't helping, if I'm honest. Still, pressure makes diamonds, right? Now, _think_, woman…

'DESCENDING TO 400 METRES…'

"Just shut up already," I snarl between gritted teeth. Now, assuming I can keep the angle of descent as steep as possible until the very last second, without chickening out and pulling back on the stick too early, this crazy plan might actually work. Or turn me into a Jackson Pollock painting across the inside of the canopy.

'DESCENDING TO 200 METRES…'

Either way, this is gonna suck.

'100 METRES. IS YOUR SEATBELT SECURE?'

Was that a joke? The flat, listless delivery of Geoff's computer actually brings a smile to my face, before –

_**Thwump! **_My head collides with the upper canopy, and suddenly I can't hear anything over a dull ringing in my ears; pure instinct lets me keep my grip firm around the wildly shaking control stick, forcing it to remain steady whilst the skis, having cleaved through the soft snow, dig into the harder ice below, hard enough to leech off some of Geoff's momentum. Just like I planned.

…actually, no, it isn't. I planned for it to work a whole lot better than it did, and now I'm heading straight for the target building like a one-ton steel arrow. With my every move still feeling sluggish and uncoordinated through the fog in my head, I wrench the stick to the right, and miraculously there's still enough air passing across the wings for the guidance flaps to make a difference; Geoff rears to the right, turning its nose away from the building, and – _no!_ The plane overbalances and starts to rear up on one ski, still heading for the building, except now the canopy's set to take the brunt of the impact, right along with me – oh, I can actually see the individual bricks now –

Silence falls. I can't even hear myself breathe. Don't know if I _am_ breathing anymore.

Then battered metal moans, and my stomach flutters as gravity drags Geoff back down onto his landing skis with a muffled _whump._ The HUD flickers out of existence for a moment, before giving me one last cheery message –

'DESTINATION REACHED. HAVE A NICE DAY!'

Not likely, boy, but thanks all the same. I pull the helmet free from my head and shake my hair loose, then lean back against the cool metal of the fuselage whilst the ringing in my ears subsides and the tired ache in my bones fades away. Well, that wasn't exactly my best work, but at least I'm down, and in one piece…not sure if I can say the same for Geoff just yet, poor thing. Now, all I need to worry about is making it across, what, twenty feet of ice and opening a door, then work out exactly how I'm going to shut down this damn computer node…thing. How hard can _that_ be?

Reaching down, I pull the canopy release lever and – _Christ,_ that's cold! Now that I think about it, every time I've been to this region before I've always been kitted out for the weather, _not_ stuck with my regular combat gear. The armourweave is supposed to have superior insulation properties, according to various tests, but you can't really test for the kind of temperatures you encounter in the field. Plus of course I _had_ to ask for the bare shoulders and midriff when I was getting it tailored. Jurgen told me it was a stupid idea…should've listened to him. "If complaining could keep me warm, I'd be toasty right now," I manage to chuckle between rapidly-cracking lips, then strike the release switch across my chest to release the flight harness, and push myself up out of my seat and over the side –

_Fwump! _A good four inches of snow gives way beneath me as my legs, still stiff from the flight, nearly buckle under me. The wind shrieks like a flock of crows – a murder of crows? – and scrapes at my exposed flesh with tendrils of chill, whipping up a tornado of snowflakes so torrential I can barely lift my head to look around…

"_C'mon, out of the plane…"_

Who said that?

"_Nina, help your sister before she falls."_

Oh…oh no. Not now…

_The wreckage around us is torn and twisted, like the inch-thick steel of the hull was little more than plastic and polystyrene, and reaches up to the ash-grey skies like the clawing fingers of some massive, terrible demon. Looking over my shoulder, I see that it's not freaking Dad out half as much as it is me, as he turns his back on the whole scene and looks to the horizon. There're some figures moving out there, but at this distance they're just dark smudges in the murk – _

"_Hey, dreamer, I don't wanna hang around here all day!" Suppressing a sigh, I turn back to the task at hand, reaching up and around my sister's body, suspended at a sharp angle from the ground by the seat she's still sat in, and unclip the belt around her waist. She falls with a little "oop" and I catch her arms, though she lands nimbly on her feet regardless, with practiced ease. I give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and she smiles, then raises her hands to hug herself tightly as a staggered breath leaves a cloud of vapor around her mouth. "It's never this cold when it snows back home."_

_I open my mouth to respond, but Dad beats me to it, his words sounding haunted and grim to my ears._

"_That's because our home is sacred, and this place is damned."_

It's the same…this place, it's just the same as that barren, pitiless stretch of Alaskan wasteland was 30 years ago. A cold and desolate stretch of hell, where the gods of fate looked down at me and laughed as I lost the one last remaining link to my humanity, to my _heart_…I can't be here, I-I can't deal with this right now…there's dampness soaking through the knees of my suit, and I look down to find snow, but not white, no, it's red, tainted by blood, _his _blood. I feel a single, warm tear roll down my cheek and raise my hands to wipe it away – but there's blood on them, too. From where I cradled his head in my lap, and it felt so light, so hollow, and I knew then that he wasn't…he was never going to…read to me again, or scold me for leaving the table early, or laugh that deep, warm laugh of his when Anna and I tried to sneak up and take him down, only to get shaken off and laid out gently in a heap of splayed limbs and embarrassment. That was Richard Williams, my father. The best man in the world.

And he's dead. He's been dead for decades now, you sobbing _idiot_, and if he could see you now he'd disown you. So shake these morbid little dreams out of your head, stand up and get across to that damn door. C'mon, one foot in front of the other, it's easy, just…just keep your balance across the snowdrift, don't worry about the cold – you'll be numb long before the hypothermia kills you, so it'll be nice and painless – unless something grabs your foot and drags you down into the frozen hell beneath you.

"No!" I cry, the sound muffled and distant, whilst I thrash and kick wildly at, at…I blink, and there's nothing but snow crumbling under my blows. Did I just trip on a rock? I close my eyes and give my head a good shake, swallowing down the cloying citrus taste in my mouth. Take a deep breath, Nina, you're not losing your mind, it's just...just...

A trickle of falling snowflakes tickles my cheek, and I open my eyes to a somber red sky above, before wiping the snowflakes away – except they're solid, and refuse to relinquish their grip, oh god, it's a _hand_, swollen purple with frostbite at the fingertips, cast in deathly white pallor elsewhere, and there, on the third finger, a simple gold band, the wedding ring, the one he never took off...

And with a lurch, daddy's head snaps into view, peering down over me with cataract eyes and black, necrotic veins criss-crossing his face like a spider's web. There's no warmth or recognition in his expression, only a shadow of despair – and as his mouth drops open and a lonely, hungry moan floats out from his throat, only _then_ do I realize how much I need to move, fast.

I blink away the nightmare image – but it doesn't want to leave just yet, instead reaching out to catch one of my arms at the wrist, then he – it – _dad_ – drags the arm in close and brings it up to his head. His touch is firm and yet pleasantly soft, and the little girl in me giggles, content. Then his hot, diseased breath prickles my skin and I snatch my hand away with a yell before he can sink his yellowed teeth into my flesh. Through eyes suddenly stinging with tears, I catch a glimpse of the door leading down, my target, and after lashing out with a grounded kick that didn't feel like it hit anything at all, I get my feet underneath my body and push up into a running start – one that turns into a stumble after two steps, and then I'm face-down in the cold and damp again, sneezing as slush gets in my nose, where - ?

Looking over my shoulder, I see him, still there – and standing now, pulling himself up like he's suspended on strings, one kneecap snapped so badly the foot under it is pointing in the opposite direction, and yet he _still_ moves forward, his mouth dropping open to moan longingly, one arm reaching out to me. I…I want to…I don't know what I want…

"Go away, daddy…" The words stumble over my trembling lips as I crawl backwards through the frigid terrain, no idea where I'm going, just – just _away_ from him. He shouldn't be here. I don't _want_ him here, I _don't!_ "LEAVE ME ALONE!" The rising edge of panic in my voice just seems to inspire him to move faster, while I, I don't seem to be moving at all – because the stiff surface at my back just won't budge. Reflexively, I strike it with the point of an elbow, and get nothing but funny-bone tingles up my arm in return. That's not snow, or ice. I can break ice. What the – it's the wall of the bunker. I'm there! Scarcely believing my own luck, I roll over my shoulder and rise to my knees, fingers scratching the old, rusted iron shell for purchase – where's the damn door handle? It's got to still be here, it's _got_ to…

The trudging footsteps behind me are getting louder. I don't want…I _can't_ die now. Not yet.

Snow's getting in my eyes, can't see what I'm doing. Something under my fingers, and I pull – no, that's the edge of the door. Fuck! Is it higher? Lower? In the middle somewhere? _There! _Almost wilting with relief, I grip the handle with both hands and simply flop down, letting my body weight pull it open…all of a few inches, forcing me to get back up and brace my back against the building so I can push it open the rest of the way with one leg. The effort makes my muscles scream in protest, but with an all-too-real-even-though-it-can't-be undead dad getting way too close for comfort again, a little cramp here and there is the least of my concerns. I just – need – this – damn – door – OPEN!

_**Screeeek!**_

The rusted hinges shriek like – oh, who cares what they're like, just get inside, now!

As I step out of the cold, icy wasteland and into the equally cold and yet somehow comforting bare corridor, I catch one final glimpse of Da – _its_ pale, ghostly face before I pull the door shut and twist what I can only assume is an old-fashioned deadbolt into place. It's over. Unless my education on all things zombie-related is severely out of date, there's no way that thing is getting through three inches of steel.

…

Or, maybe it's not even gonna bother trying. What, it just gave up? Doesn't seem right. Actually…nothing about this seems right. I was fighting (okay, running away from, whatever) a _zombie_, for crying out loud. A zombie bearing the face of a man who died far, far away from here, and was buried quietly in Dublin. And where did all that blood come from? And why do I taste oranges?

Wait. Oranges…that's usually fentanyl, right? Originally a medical drug only, but I've heard of plenty terrorist groups using it in gas grenades, since it's got potent knock-out properties. Except I wasn't under gas attack there, I'd have heard it – in fact, I can't remember being exposed to anything like fentanyl in years, not since –

"Shit, of course…" It hits me like a ton of bricks. The dead coming to life, the snow…just like the hallucinations from Lana Lei's toxin darts on the _Amphitrite._ I can still hear her scratchy voice huffing about how I killed her dorky boyfriend, then that horrible piercing laugh…and fighting through those visions, I felt like I was moving through water, every step taken and punch thrown draining me, to the point where I could barely keep my eyes open. 'Course, I kicked her ass in the end, and put the whole incident behind me, but it seems that, even after more than _twenty years,_ I can't catch a break, and her poison is still in my system. Or maybe it did something to my brain, something permanent, and now I can't go anywhere similar to the freakish nightmare world she dragged out of my memories without suffering a relapse…I don't know. I don't want to think about it.

Okay, topic change. Where am I and why hasn't my moment of confusion earned me a few bullets in the skull from whoever's on guard duty?

The walls in here are solid concrete, a few hairline cracks from years of weather-related stress but still sturdy. There's a single bare lightbulb above me, which illuminates the first dozen steps of a staircase going down into impenetrable shadows. And over the muffled howls of the wind outside, I hear…nothing. Not a peep, not a beep, and certainly not any scuffed, hurried bootsteps of panicky soldiers rushing up to greet me. I might just be completely home alone in this dump. Drawing my knife from its sheath, finding reassurance in its weight, I slow my breathing and begin to descend into the unknown, counting my steps as I go. Five…ten…fifteen…you'd think that simply building their super-secret bunker out here in the middle of nowhere would be enough for the Zaibatsu, but _no-o-o_, gotta make it underground, too…twenty-five…

I'm up to forty-two before my next step strikes even ground – and the next second, I'm blinded by the harsh light that floods the room. Motion sensors, I suppose. The technology itself doesn't surprise me so much as the fact the power's still running after what has to be at least ten years.

Once my eyes adjust to the light, I can see the room is a dead end; there's no more doors leading into further offshoots of the facility, and this single chamber doesn't have the facilities for staff to sleep in. All that's here is a heavy-duty equipment locker, a bank of what I'm going to assume are mainframe computers, and a high-backed chair with a headset sat on it. No prizes for guessing which one the precious network node is, but that locker is giving me a good feeling, and I've been travelling light since Tokyo; a good firearm at your side is always comforting. Slipping my knife back into its sheath, I step over to the locker and pull its stiff doors open –

"Oh, come to mama…" Someone was stocking up for winter. There are four rifles mounted on a rack, Tavor TAR-21s by the look of it, plus two MP5K submachine-guns and a bandolier loaded with frag grenades. Even better, there's a couple of folded-up parka jackets, and I grin like a big kid on Christmas morning as I unfold one and throw it over my shoulders, slipping my arms through the thick sleeves and zipping it up the front. Doesn't make much of a difference down here, but if I'm gonna go topside again – something I'm already dreading – it'd be nice to do it without turning my shoulders into big blue ice blocks. I stare longingly at the TAR-21s, but as it stands, without a proper harness for the things, I can't afford to carry them around, so instead pick up the SMGs – much more portable – and sling the bandolier over one shoulder. I feel better already. Now, let's see what this computer's all about.

Judging by its outer shell, this thing's probably not running on Windows 2038. Other than a couple of slowly pulsing blue LEDs, any actual sensitive components are buried beneath glossy obsidian paneling, tinted enough to render their contents invisible. There's something almost eerily oppressive about the machines as they just sit there, humming quietly to themselves, lights pulsing in sequence…my hands tighten around the SMGs instinctively, but shooting probably isn't the way to go here; even assuming the machines aren't bulletproof, there's probably some sort of backup or failsafe routine to protect the systems and data if their hard drive is lost. Which means I'm going to have to use all my hacker skills to shut this thing down permanently. Coincidentally, I don't have any hacker skills. "Maybe I'll strike lucky, and there'll be a great big 'delete' button somewhere…" Dropping the guns on the floor for a moment, I pick up the headset and slump into the chair, wondering why on Earth an engineer would honestly choose what looks like a colander covered in loose wiring over a good old mouse and keyboard, before I begrudgingly slip it on over my head and…and…

…Oh look, nothing happened. Can I go home now?

_I will not stop you if that is your wish._

Gee, thanks…wait, what the fuck? "Who said that?"

_I did._

"Yeah, that's not really an answer…" Looking all around the room, I can't see anyone, not a trace, not even a faint shimmer of optic camouflage. But the voice was definitely there – a woman's voice, soothing and cultured…

_I am not in the room, not physically._

Oh, riddles now, great… "So, what, you're in contact via the radio from another bunker?" And how the hell did she know I was looking for her? There's nowhere to hide even the smallest of cameras in this bare room –

_There is no need for radio, nor cameras. I am broadcasting directly to your frontal lobe through the headset's synaptic upload facilities. If I were to have a physical form, you would find it, currently, right in front of you._

"In my _head?_ I don't think I want you in my head." The only thing that fits the 'right in front of me' bill is the fancy computer…oh. _Ohhh_, I get it now, it's one of _those_…

_If by 'those' you mean a fourth-generation artificial intelligence construct, then yes, I am one of those._

"Don't tell me I hurt your feelings – or whatever software you have instead of feelings…"

_Vocalization is not needed; I can copy your thought patterns and interpret them into words with near-one-hundred percent accuracy._

…Spergle niddlebump keeyernin fudooyah.

_Dialect unrecognized, please try again._

I was joking. So…you got a name, computer?

_My serial number is MN-320-89A. My designation is Mishima Zaibatsu Strategic Guidance Core Two. However, my creator often referred to me by the name of his deceased wife, for the reason that we spent so much time in one another's company. That name was Sylvana Bosconovitch._

Bosconovitch…I should've guessed.

_You are familiar with the creator?_

You could say I was another of his 'projects'. Suffice to say he didn't show me quite the same affection. And I'm not here to reminisce about some Russian geriatric, anyway.

_No. You came here to destroy me._

Uh…before this goes any further, can I just say that, that I think you're a wonderful…_person_…and that I really don't think this has to be quite so serious, I mean, not to the degree that any sort of retaliation would be warranted, uh…

_There is no need to worry over your own safety. I am incapable of inflicting direct harm on any human being._

Thank Christ. Okay, so you can just shut yourself down now, right? Nice and easy. I could do with a lucky break about now…

_I'm afraid I can't do that, Nina._

Knew it. I don't get lucky breaks, ever. Alright, tell me where the 'off' switch is, then.

_There is no 'switch' as such. I require a direct command from the user – that being you._

Well, okay, shut down.

_Command not registered. Insufficient force applied._

What the hell does that mean? Do I have to kick you _while _I'm telling you what to do? Because believe me, I'll do it, and you won't like it one bit.

_Physical strain is not necessary. My command interface will only register a user prompt if it is delivered with sufficient willpower. This is to prevent the system from responding to careless or wandering thoughts._

…Shut down.

_Negative input._

Shut. The _fuck._ Down.

_Negative input._

Fuck's sake - !

_If I may offer a suggestion…?_

Please.

_Try not to think of this task in literal terms. Humans, I have observed, are capable of greater feats – both mentally and physically – when they feel a personal connection to their assigned task. Think of something that triggers strong emotional resonance within you, and the memory – if sufficiently vivid – will create a strong enough impulse of thought for the shut-down command to compile._

I'm…not really comfortable looking at my past. Especially not now.

_Then we have reached a quandary._

…Wait. I think I know what to do.

_That is pleasantly surprising._

Shut up. Concentrating. Now...it's a widely-held belief that people in my line of work don't 'do' emotions – they cloud your judgment, breed frustration, and can leave you paralyzed at times when immediate action is all that stands between you and an undignified death. Me, I think that's solid advice, but every so often, I can't help but let my hair down in battle – and funnily enough, most of those times always seem to involve the same person. Anna. Last time…

"You're mine now, witch!" Her insane shrieking demanded a response, but I kept silent, partly not to disrupt my focus but mostly due to the lingering effects of a chop to the windpipe sustained two minutes earlier. All around us, a small but frenzied crowd presses against the scaffolding of a building still under construction, for now serving as a cage to keep our battle contained; some of them seem to be on my side, some don't, although none of them know our names. To them, I'm just 'blondie' or maybe 'ice queen'. Funnily enough, they call Anna the same names I call her. 'Slut', mostly.

It's the fifth Iron Fist tournament, or the fifth in our lifetimes. Unbelievably, it took us _this _long to come face-to-face in an official capacity; before it was always sneak attacks in dirty alleyways, or car bombs, or stolen clothes, or…you get it. But this time, we fought our way through the tournament with the sole goal of meeting each other again. This time, we both knew there had to be a decisive victory on one side, and a shameful, agonizing loss on the other. And in the end, after fighting flat-out for half an hour, our blows becoming steadily less co-ordinated as time marched on and our clothes stained dark with sweat and blood…I proved what I had known for years. That I am simply better than Anna.

She fluffed one final jab and I kicked her legs out from under her, catching her extended arm as I did so, before trapping her neck under the crook of my free elbow and standing over her back, using my weight to force her body down even as I pulled her head back. She pounds at my arm and ribs with her one free hand, but there's no real power behind the blows, not enough to faze me…and as I peer over my shoulder and look down into her vivid blue eyes, I can see her resolve break. She knows it's over.

Now…I know, when this happened 'for real', I let her drop and just walked away, because…well, I don't know why, honestly. It just felt right. But what if I hadn't?

Losing myself to the memory completely, I think of the well of bitterness and hatred born from our battles over the years, anger powerful enough to survive nearly two decades of deep freeze treatment – and suddenly I can't crush Anna's throat hard enough. Her eyes widen further than I've ever seen them go, and she tries to say something, but her voice is so tiny and inconsequential it's barely a squeak, and it pisses me off to think that the legacy of our family could be somehow tied into this shameful, spineless _whore - !_

Bone doesn't break as easily as some people like to think. It's alive, it resists your efforts just as much as straining muscles – or the target's determination to not letting you win. My head feels like it's going to split open and I'm gritting my own teeth together so hard I can taste warm, coppery blood leaking from my gums…but a few seconds later, her neck snaps with a muted _crack_; as perfunctory as the closed bracket at the end of a line of code.

_Shut down complete._

"Ugh," I groan, with my actual voice now, as I slump in the chair, reaching up to pull off the interface helmet then dropping it to the floor. The computer's lights have all turned off, which I'm taking as 'objective completed'. Whoop de doo. _God,_ that was…that was a lot more trouble than pulling the plug out the power socket. Really should get going, need to keep a safe lead over any possible pursuers…but I'm feeling very light-headed, it's…it's not safe to fly like that…

"I'm just gonna…" I mutter before a yawn cuts me off. "…gonna catch some shut-eye for a minute."

I mean, where's the harm in that?

…

My eyelids feel like they've been gummed together as I open them. That's my first clue that something's wrong. Then, with a start, I pull back the Velcro patch on my wrist and check the multipurpose watch/depth gauge/Geiger counter underneath – which, aside from telling me I'm 20 feet below sea level and surrounded by safe levels of background radiation, also makes it clear I've been sat in this chair, snoring for all I know, for _three and a half hours._

"Shit shit _shit,_" I hear myself hissing as I scramble out of the chair, almost falling straight down to my knees before the pins and needles wear off, and I dash for the stairs – no no _no_ remember the guns you stupid woman – so I dash back for the SMGs, _then _make for the stairs, taking them up two at a time, heartbeat pounding in time with every echoing footstep, cursing myself for being so sloppy all the way. My eyes remain fixed on the door to the surface, half-convinced it'll fly open any second, and there'll be some Russian soldiers or JACKs, hell, maybe Heihachi himself in that stupid sumo diaper thing he was wearing a year or two back…but it's shut and it stays that way until I reach the top and pull it open myself, crouching down and aiming the SMGs in a wide arc as that cruel wind howls for my blood again. Nothing moves save the still-falling snow; no soldiers, no robots, and thank God, no zombie-dad. Maybe the hallucinations are triggered by environmental stimuli; it's still freezing up here, but the parka does its job, so I don't feel nearly so cold. Or maybe it's just because I was expecting it this time. Tricky to tell one way or another, and I really don't have time to work it out. I need to get out of here _now._

Walking back over to the plane – what did I call it, oh yeah, Geoff – I do some quick mental arithmetic; G-Corp's finest commando teams' best readiness time is 4 minutes 10 seconds, or it was last time I spied on them, at least. The nearest base they can use for deployment is in Abu Gharib, and with a light transport helicopter they could make the trip from there to here in, oh, 50 minutes. Total time 54 minutes and a bit. I've been here for nearly four hours. They're a no-show. Which means, they don't know I'm here. Good, but who else might know?

And that is exactly what I think about right up until Geoff explodes.

The pressure of the heat blast catches me before I hear the explosion – which means I hear the muzzle report of the gunshot that set it off first, and even as I'm bowled off my feet I'm filing it away as an armour-piercing round, likely fired from a Barrett M50 or some more modern equivalent and –

"Gnnf!" The ground catches up with me before that thought goes any further. The ice might as well be stone – hell, it's maybe harder than that, and the impact drives the air from my lungs in a flash. I lay flat and take a breath, feeling the material of my leggings growing damp from the ice, not to mention my skin prickling up on direct contact with the surface, shrapnel from the blast having torn holes in my gear. Wait, the blast –

"Geoff, dammit!"

Sitting up, I tell myself I don't need to look at the wreckage, but I do anyway, hoping for some sort of miracle – like maybe the bullet hit a fuel drum that happened to be floating in mid-air a good ten metres away from the plane. Of course, that didn't happen. Geoff's little more than a bundle of twisted, burnt-out steel scraps surrounded by a ring of fire, a ring I crawl towards on all fours as the realization drops a two-ton weight in my gut – I'm stranded, alone, in the middle of Siberia, no transport of provisions…oh yeah, and there's a sniper out there waiting for me, which I just nearly forgot. "Crap," I curse to myself, then look around for cover – and seeing no better options, scramble towards the nearest snowbank. I manage all of two steps before the booming cry of the Barrett rolls across the plains again, the shock causing me to falter in mid-stride…

_Paff - !_

A cloud of snow is kicked up in front of me as the bullet hammers into the ground. My faltering just saved my life, with the sniper trying to lead my movements – zero chance of being that lucky again, though, so I roll forwards and lay flat behind the snowbank, pressing against it and feeling reassured by the solidity of pure ice. It's likely been frozen like that for twenty years or more, so there's no question of its bulletproof properties.

Trouble is…what now? I can't stay here indefinitely; even if the parka keeps the cold at bay, I'll need to eat or sleep eventually. If I don't, the enemy will find it easy as pie to sneak forwards and catch me dozing or drowsy, and that'll be that. And I can't move from this spot without appearing in the open, and against a pure-white backdrop I'll stick out like a sore thumb, then _kapow,_ no more pretty blonde hair or head to mount it on. Speaking of whom, this mystery sniper – if they're alone – probably has their own vehicle nearby, or at least some means of calling one in. That's my one and only ticket out of here, and that means I need to go on the offensive. Which would be a lot easier if I knew where the hell the bastard _is._

That, at least, I know how to fix. Slipping the knife out of its sheath on my thigh, I cut the left sleeve off the parka at the elbow – I'll miss the warmth, but I need a distraction and this is the best I can manage – and scrunch it up into a ball, before creeping carefully across to the edge of the snowbank. Taking a deep breath, I peek out from cover with one eye, leaving as little of my head out as I can – and throw the sleeve up into the air. The wind catches it, carrying it away – and _boom,_ the sniper snaps at the bait, with the muzzle-flash of his rifle standing out against the snow like the only star in the sky. Perfect. Nipping back into cover, I do some quick thinking. Given the size of the flash and what I guess the caliber is, he's at least 100 feet away; that's about 90 more than I can cross without him blowing both my legs off. I need some extra cover…which I happen to be carrying on me. Pulling four grenades off the bandolier I stole downstairs, I coil my legs under my body and take a deep breath, ready for a crazy – no, _suicidal – _sprint. Then I pull out all four pins and throw the pineapples up and into the air in a wide arc, and leap to my feet, pulling myself up and over the snowbank just as –

_Bam – POOM! _A burst of bright orange fire flickers in the air above me – he actually hit one before it could reach the ground, helluva shot – but I don't let it faze me, raising one arm against the falling snow as I run towards his hiding spot, counting the seconds in my head, three…two, he could have a bead on me any moment – one. Then with a succession of muffled _poom_s, the remaining three grenades detonate on the surface, kicking up thick clouds of snow and shattered ice. I turn a little to the left to run straight towards one…and since I've still got all my limbs attached three seconds later, I guess it worked and the sniper's lost sight of me. He's got three possible targets in his scope and time for one shot at best, a shot he'll save until I'm closer and more visible.

_Only if I let you fire, you dumb shit, _I think, breath coming too short to let me say it aloud. With the cover of the cloud starting to thin out, I reach down to my hips and pull out the SMGs, leveling them forwards towards roughly where the target lies without stopping – hey, I can almost see him now, a darker-grey smudge amidst lighter-grey scenery. He – looks like a 'he', anyway – shifts his position, and I imagine I can already see my reflection in the lens of his rifle, before I squeeze both triggers and start fighting to keep my arms straight while thirty rounds spill from each barrel towards my enemy, now my target. He doesn't curse or yell or cry in alarm, but he backs up and attempts to sidestep as a storm of bullets churn up the ground around him. Meanwhile, I'm closer, closer – forty yards, then thirty, twenty – then, suddenly, I can make out a face. Pale, drawn, pursed lips with a scar running across them. _Dragunov,_ my mind adds absently. He was in the last tournament, an eleventh-hour entry after Bryan Fury dropped out. He's either KGB or Spetsnaz, maybe schooled at the Red Room – a no-nonsense professional who never loses his head in battle, and under other circumstances, I might actually enjoy testing myself against him.

Right now, though, it's freezing, I'm tired, he has a loaded rifle and my SMGs just clicked empty. Without stopping I lift my arms up higher and swing, throwing both guns towards him; he ducks without thinking, which gives me a precious extra second to close the gap before I take a leap of faith – and kick out at his arms as he stands up straight again. A firm _thwack _followed by a brief clatter of metal on ice tells me I've disarmed him, before I land on ice myself, sending a jolt of fire through my back. No time to worry about that now. I snake my arms around his nearest leg and –

"Urgh!" My throat catches itself short and forces a cough – he was too fast for me, and drove his free heel right into my stomach. Even as I take a new breath, I can feel his hands clamp tight around my wrists and force me up into a sitting position, before he forces my arms to cross and tightens them around my neck – or he tries to. Me, I'm not feeling co-operative, so I slip my head down and under the attempted choke-hold, then push myself up to stand, turning to face him as I go. Up close, I can make out the glassy look in his eyes, and feel his exhaled breath warming my skin – then I forget those and focus on keeping my footing steady, as he piles his weight forwards, trying to overbalance me. I push back and dig my heels in…and I wish I could say that works, but my arms start to cramp in a matter of seconds – yeah, alright, _maybe _he's got me beat on pure strength…today.

_Maybe._

So instead, without dropping my gaze from his eyes, I throw a short kick forwards with my right leg – and he hisses with pain before stumbling forwards, his weakened stance unable to cope with his own forward leaning. Breaking my wrists out of his grip, I tangle his arms up with mine and pull him down a little lower, intending to – _dammit, _he got one arm free! I tense up – "Gnnn!" – and the pointed elbow driven into my belly hurts a little less, but only a little. The blinding flash of pain still shakes me enough to make me lose my grip altogether – and he makes me pay for it, re-asserting his own hold then sweeping my legs out from under me even as he pulls me forwards, letting my own momentum flip me over and land flat on my back. I don't even get the chance to yell in shock before I feel his legs wrap around one of my arms, and a flood of dread rushes through my brain, lessons taught so often they've become instinct kicking into play – _armbar hold, join hands to prevent hyperextension, roll over and get feet beneath you. _He knows what he's doing, and he's still strong, but I follow the steps, keeping my trapped hand close to my chest and roll over, leaving him facing down as I push myself up – and, sensing the futility of further effort, he relents on the hold and rolls quickly away out of range, swiftly returning to his ready stance even as I slip into mine.

With a free second to think, my mind races through the implications of Dragunov's presence here. He's a Russian military loyalist and deeply patriotic in his own creepy, mute way, at least based on what I've read, and it's entirely possible the Russians would be the first to notice Geoff and I touching down here. But why send your best man in specifically to kill the intruder without recon first? It's a stupid move, unless they already knew it was me…hell, even then they wouldn't necessarily send Dragunov; they'd send a conventional army squad with orders to capture me. And the fact that they didn't means…Heihachi. He's already on to me, and that he doesn't have much of an army of his own doesn't matter if he's still got enough friends in high places. The right word in the right ear and a quick payoff, and Sergei here thinks he's doing the work of the Motherland by tearing my head off. Fucking politics. Can't do anything about that here, though; the look on Dragunov's face makes it clear he's not interested in anything I have to say. Fine by me – I'm past the point of talking this through.

We each take a cautious step forwards, but as he goes for another, I feint and lash out with a kick aimed high, that – misses? How the hell did he move so fast? Before I can get my leg back, he's taken a crouching step forwards that brings him to point-blank range and – "Guh!" – his elbow catches me right on the chin, smashing the upper and lower halves of my jaw together, something I barely get a split-second to register before it's replaced by a sharp tugging on my scalp, this asshole's _pulling my hair, _of all the stupid, catty things…I reach up to pull his hand away, but he sees a hole in my guard and pulls my head forwards into a punch that rattles my rattles the, I've, _crap, _ears ringing, can't think straight – my jaw threatens to dislocate as the back of his hand flashes across my cheek, and then a clubbing blow to my back makes the ground rush up to greet my face with a big, freezing-cold hug.

He relents after that, and I'm almost pathetically grateful for the respite. Through the constant thumping in my skull, I can just make out his footsteps crunching against the snow, retreating slowly – but not for long, probably just looking for his gun so he can _really _finish me off. I need to move, _now, _but the chill is slowing me down, and the ground is so soft and uneven, crumbling between my fingers as I claw at it, that – wait.

…now there's an idea.

My hand digs tightly into the snow again, curling into a ball, even as I hear the metallic _clink _as Dragunov checks his clip. I look around at the little clearing we're in, taking note of the thick snowdrift to my right, before slowly rolling over onto my back, trying to look as sluggish as I can, like I've resigned myself to my fate; his face betrays no emotion as he levels the long barrel of the rifle at me, leaving its business end barely a foot from my face. The smell of gunsmoke is fresh enough to make my nostrils twitch.

Then I lash out with the hand and, yep, throw a snowball in his face.

"Ah - !" That short exclamation of surprise is the loudest sound I've ever heard him make, and I don't mind saying I enjoy it – almost as much as I enjoy still having my head attached to my shoulders, as Sergei's a little too professional to allow for a reflexive squeeze on the trigger as he takes the hit. That kind of rookie move would've killed me here.

I give him as firm a kick in the head as I can manage before rolling to the side and pushing off the ground into an unbalanced sprinting step, heading straight for the snowdrift – if this thing turns out to be solid ice, I'm dead – and with the last step, I dive like a swimmer, arms out in front of me, cutting a path for the rest of my body through the blessedly soft snow. A bit of vigorous kicking digs me in a little further and – hopefully – conceals my entry point, and then I curl myself up, draw the knife from its sheath on my thigh and wait. Can't see a damn thing in here, but I can still make out the scuffing of leather on ice as Dragunov gets to his feet and moves, no doubt wondering where I am…wait, those steps are getting closer. Damn damn _damn. _Please don't be smarter than me, you mute bastard. Another few steps, still getting louder, and he's surely right on top of me by now; I shift to face my entry point, getting ready to move, praying that he doesn't let a few rounds loose into my hiding spot experimentally –

And I'm so busy praying I barely notice the next footfalls, light and hurried, too light to be Dragunov's. Where did they come from? They get closer, then there's the rapid scuffling of sharp movements, some heavy thuds, the clattering of the rifle falling to the ground, and the unmistakable slapping of flesh clashing with flesh.

Within ten seconds, it's over. Even so, I wait another fifteen just to be sure. I don't hear any more movements, and nobody picks up the gun. Might as well chance it…gripping the knife between my teeth, I wriggle out of my hidey-hole, pushing blindly through the ice until the freezing wind on my face tells me I'm free. My legs coil under me as I emerge all the way, and I take the knife in hand again – but as I look up, I find I don't need to bother.

Dragunov's laid out on his back, eyes shut. There's a trickle of blood coming from his nose, and a wide purple bruise forming on his right temple. I don't think he got either of those from me. His rifle's still laid on the ice a matter of feet from his unmoving hands. There are no tracks or signs of another person being here…but they _were _here. Hyper-professional military men don't just knock themselves out, after all. So, what, I have an anonymous benefactor? That's hard to believe, but I'll take the assist anyway.

A quick look around the area and I find Dragunov's transportation – a heavy-duty snowmobile resting atop a nearby hill, with the engine still running to keep it warm. That's my ticket out, and I almost leave right then and there, except…

I turn back to the man lying on the ice. If his bosses don't think he's in trouble, they might just leave him out here for six hours or more, by which point he'd be long-dead of frostbite or hypothermia. And sure, he was trying to kill me…but he was here under false pretenses. He doesn't deserve to die just for having puppets for superiors. Or maybe I really am going soft.

Whatever, my mind's made up. Heaving a sigh, I head back to him. Figure I can leave him by Geoff's still-burning wreck to keep him warm, and there's bound to be a radio in the snowmobile I can send an SOS signal through, not to mention a map or sat-nav; I've got to get to Australia next.

And at some point, I'd really like a nap, too, if it's not too much to ask.

**Author's Notes**

Yeah, so…hi again! Boy, that one took a long time. I've made excuses before, and beyond that…well, I've just been swamped with other stuff that needed writing, non-fan-fiction stuff, and this story get left by the wayside. Better late than never though, right? However, I am going to say that all further updates probably won't stick to any sort of schedule; all I can promise is that they will happen at some point or another. How vague can you get, right? ;)

Anyways…this chapter. A lot happens here, and a lot of it wasn't part of the initial plan. For example, the computer node was originally just going to be a computer, with no fancy trickery, but as I started writing that scene I found it to be quite dull, so instead I decided to make the system more of a sci-fi artificial intelligence, and make deleting chunks of it actually a stressful, taxing thing for Nina to do. As for the name…I don't recall Dr. Bosconovitch's wife ever being mentioned in any official Tekken media (do we even know if he had one?), so I just made up a suitably pretty and Eastern European-sounding name.

The whole 'zombie Richard' bit was – as I hope you all noticed – inspired by _Death By Degrees,_ which I refuse to stop mentioning no matter how crap other people insist it is. The trippy boss fights with Lana Lei are actually the highlight of that game for me, and almost seem like a spiritual predecessor to the brilliant Scarecrow sequences from _Batman: Arkham Asylum, _with the gameplay complimenting a narrative device showing the tortured past experiences of the hero. Admittedly, it's a bit odd for a toxin taken by Nina some 22 years ago to still be in her system, but I'm thinking it's more like permanent minor brain damage caused by said toxin that still lingers. Again, it wasn't in the first draft of the chapter, but I added it when I realized that Nina would be fighting in the snowy wilderness here.

Oh, and Dragunov was in the chapter as well. I do like Sergei quite a bit – I mean, he has a scary face, a cool fighting style and is a mute Russian, so he's awesome three times over – and you might've been able to tell that by how dangerous I made him look, but actually trying to nail his personality is difficult when looking at him through someone else's first-person POV. Which, I suppose, is always going to be the case with a character whose main trait is betraying no human feelings.

And, uh, Geoff. Yeah. Not sure what that was about. It made sense at the time.

…um…reviews!

**Claudiaeneri: **Glad you like it! Sorry I couldn't keep Jin alive, but…well, I prefer him dead. He's more interesting that way. :P As to your question: I may not have phrased that part of chapter 1 very clearly, but what I meant was that Nina could feel Azazel's presence, or the effect he has on his surroundings, even _without _the Devil Gene. I am categorically saying she _doesn't _have it. Hope that clears things up.

**Aegis Khaos: **Not sure if you're still around, but I really need to get back to reviewing the last chapters of 'Kings and Queens' at some point soon. And yeah, totally agreeing with you about Lars, and about the Mishimas in general; it kinda deflates much of the tension in official Tekken stories when the members of that clan are depicted as being so much more powerful than all the other characters. Makes you wonder why the rest of the roster even bother showing up sometimes. Oh, and you liked the jet? Too bad, I broke it already. :D

**Majinshirow: **I WAS GETTING AROUND TO IT! GET OFF MY BACK MAN! JEEZ! ;)

And finally…

**Next time (whenever that is): **We skip a chapter (don't worry, nothing significant was going to happen save for hog-tying Marduk) to find Nina already landing in Australia without trouble, ready to fix the next network node – but the bad guys are catching up, and in force. It's not the getting into Sydney that'll hurt…it's getting back out again. Guest starring – dramatic music, please – Kazuya Mishima! And possibly someone else, too!


	7. Chapter 7: The Devil You Know

**The Last Command**

**Chapter 7: The Devil You Know**

_Her lungs ached – every breath she tried to take was stolen by the harsh winds that forced sharp daggers of cold deep through her cardigan and muscle, straight down to her bones. It numbed her, coupling with the deafness brought by the howling gale and the blindness courtesy of the thick, dancing snow to cut her off completely from the world around her. She was alone…_

_No, not alone, not completely. His hand was still in hers, and still warm. She cradled it to her cheek, grateful for what little heat it provided, and the implied assurance of her safety. So long as Daddy was here, nothing could hurt her. And Anna, too – she couldn't see her, but she knew her sister was on Daddy's other side, probably clung to his other hand. Her sister was probably terrified, but Nina was unshakable. They were a family. They would face everything together – and come through it with a smile, stepping over the broken bodies of their enemies as they departed. Together._

_She wanted to tell that to the shimmering, ethereal shadow men before her, beings that twisted and turned with every change in the wind, that mocked and laughed at her in their warbling, distorted voices. She wanted to shut them up, somehow. But every time she opens her mouth, the threats die in her throat before they can be voiced. She turns to her father, hoping for some words of encouragement – but his face was now nothing more than chalk-white bone, glaring down at her with accusation in its empty eye sockets…_

... ... ...

The smooth, calming voice of a stewardess over the cabin's PA system greets me as I return to the waking world with a muffled groan.

"…_and gentlemen, we will be touching down in Sydney 10 minutes ahead of schedule. Please return to your seats and put all trays in the upright position, and take care to remove all hand luggage when leaving the plane…"_

None of that really applies to me; couldn't carry any guns aboard without making advance arrangements with customs on both ends of the journey, which I didn't have time for, and I haven't left my seat once for fear of disturbing the baby across the aisle that's been mercifully quiet. Besides, y'know, I've been busy getting tormented by my own warped little mind, so fun times all round.

Speaking of which…it's been a long time since I last had that dream. Thought I was over it by now; I'm twenty-five going on forty-five, for God's sake, a grown woman, and I'm perfectly happy being alone in this world. Perfectly. _Happy._ At least when I'm alone there's no complications, no arguments, no slapping from a bitch of a sister, and nobody I'll wind up failing to save. Like that twerp Lukas, or Jin…or Dad. My eyes are starting to sting. I don't know why.

A lurch in my stomach warns me as the plane begins its final descent, which at least gives me something else to focus on. I've got quite enough on my timetable as it is – introspection can wait for another day.

This time is different. My grip tightens around the trigger and, in dreamlike slow-motion, I see the burst of flame spread from the barrel of my pistol like a blossoming flower, a second before a ragged, circular hole is punched through the pale, smooth skin on Anna's forehead, revealing the darker flesh beneath and a glistening sliver of wet skull, swiftly overtaken by a torrent of bright red blood. Her jaw reflexively slackens as the light dims from her eyes, and decades' worth of spite and bitterness disappears from the lines of her face. I don't remember the last time I saw her so…content.

"_Node offline."_

And just like that, the image fades from my head, leaving nothing but a slightly nauseous feeling in my mouth, and a thumping headache. This time wasn't so bad – knowing what to do made it easier…even so, this is still a seriously twisted way to get a damn computer to turn itself off. Even more so than those reset switches that are so tiny you need to stick a pen in them. On the plus side, I'm officially halfway done now, so only two more pretend-Annas to murder. Funny how I'm not looking forward to that – although it is pretty sad that these little copies never put up a fight the way the genuine article does…

_Tch, _didn't we already promise to leave the brooding 'til later, girl? Prying another ridiculous helmet from my head, I take a moment to massage my temples before slipping out of the chair and trudging back over to the tiny industrial lift that lifts me out of the dark, claustrophobic underground chamber and back up top into a…garage, I suppose? You have to applaud the architect for going this far in pursuit of a disguise; there's at least three Zaibatsu-related facilities in this city alone that would be much more sensible choices to house a network node, but instead they plump for a tiny, discreet little shack in the slums, or at least the closest a nice place like this has to slums. Smart, and must have cost a fortune too. Still, the subterfuge is undermined slightly by someone filling up every square foot of storage space with weapons and ammo, not to mention something big covered by tarp that could be an armoured jeep. Maybe that was Jin's way of helping me out. Moron.

As the corrugated steel shutter retracts into the roof with a succession of _clanks, _the sudden brightness of the midday sun makes me blink, and casts my vision into near-blindness for a moment – just as the hairs on the back of my neck prickle in warning. Dropping a hand down to a pistol I scrounged from the hoard inside, I take a deep breath and lower myself into a more balanced stance and…nothing happens. I give it another ten seconds, then fifteen, as my sight returns, before easing up – there's nothing there, just the same deserted back-alleys leading to the same barely-used road I took to get here. Great, now I'm jumping at nothing. Usually my instincts are worth listening to, but I guess running for as long as I have with only broken sleep is bound to take a toll…

I step outside to find it just as pleasantly warm as when I arrived, and the chirping birdsong compliments the sea breeze quite beautifully, I reflect with a faint smile as I pace unhurried back towards the road. The saltwater smell makes me think of trips to the beach as a kid and –

And I smell the gun-oil and throw myself to the ground a second before the repeating dry thunderclap of full-auto fire tears the serenity apart like rice paper.

_**BRAKKA – BRAKKA – BRAKKA!**_

"So much for – _kaff!"_, I choke on the dirt kicked up by nearby bullets hitting the ground – _so much for jumping at nothing, _I meant to say, as I roll away from the nearest impacts and spot three men in dark green fatigues firing from the back door and windows of a neighbouring building. G-Corp? Here? _Already? _That's bad luck even by my own low standards. Their guys are amongst the best-trained professionals in the world so, naturally, all three are dead five seconds later, as I get back up with my pistol smoking in one hand. Training means jack-squat in the field.

My head snaps around at the squealing of tyres on tarmac – it's their back-up, coming off the main road in an armour-plated Humvee, with one man mounting the gunner's position on top. The momentum of the turn makes him slough over to one side, and I rush forward without hesitating – it's the only chance I'll get before he turns the .50-cal my way – even as the damn van's bearing down on me; the driver's leering face is visible through the windshield in the instant before I leap and plant one foot firmly on the bonnet, gritting my teeth as the impact shock jolts up through my hip, then sling my body forwards into a dive even as the Hummer keeps rolling under me. The gunner's recovered but I'm already past the barrel of his gun and reaching out for him with both arms, snaking a grip around his neck before I break it easier than a stranger's promise. His body slumps limply back down inside the vehicle to the sound of shocked yells from his squad mates, yells that only get louder as I drop in to join them, giving the closest guy a firm kick in the jaw before yanking his SMG free from its shoulder-strap and squeezing the trigger as the business end tracks around the tight cabin. The muzzle report for each shot is deafening in such a closed environment, drowning out the voices of the soldiers even before their shortened lives rob them of their speech altogether – but before I go feeling too proud of myself, that little danger tingle comes back, and my eyes widen as I see a wall closing in from the front. Squirming over two corpses, I pull down the latch on the left rear door and let it swing open before pushing myself out, landing in a tight somersault with a grunt. Behind me, the driver-less Hummer finishes its journey by squashing its crumplezone firmly against a few tons of brick and mortar.

_There's got to be more – _pressing the SMG's stock tight to my shoulder, I swing around in a quick circle – and sure enough, two more G-Corp guys, up on a rooftop this time. The crash clearly took them by surprise; another two muzzle-flashes and I make them pay for that mistake.

It falls quiet after that – too quiet. Yeah, shut up, I went there. Even allowing for this place being the less-busy end of town, _somebody _should have heard this ruckus by now, yet I haven't heard or seen a single scream or panicking civvy, which means the G boys have this place sealed off, and it'd take lot more men than the ones I just dealt with to do _that. _No big deal, though. I just need to fall back a bit to the garage, then I'll have enough bullets for all of 'em.

Assuming they actually show up. "C'mon, you weaselly little shits," I call out as I check the magazine in the SMG – eight rounds left, better than nothing, "you can do better than that…"

"Maybe they can't," says another voice, cruel and embittered yet tinged with condescending amusement, and right…behind me. "But surely _my _attentions will suffice." It's a voice I know too well, and I don't need to look over my shoulder to know how those mismatched eyes are staring at me like I'm something found stuck to the bottom of a shoe, or how the bastard's standing with his shoulders back and his arms folded across his chest like he owns this whole city.

I spit out the name like it's poison. "_Kazuya._"

He chuckles, and I whirl around, bringing the gun to bear on his predictably-smug face – but before my finger reaches the trigger, his right foot kicks up and knocks the gun clear out of my hands. But I guess I expected that – guns never worked on him before.

Purely on instinct, I narrow my hands into blades and lash out with a quick left-right aimed toward his ugly face and that dumbass head of hair, but he's as quick as ever, taking one step back as he leans first to one side then the next, letting my strikes sail past his still-mocking features with ease. Feinting a repeat attack, I crouch instead and join both hands at the wrist before thrusting a double palm-strike toward his gut – and pain shoots through my arms as he brings one clubbing strike down across my elbows to cut that plan short. An instant later, my vision snaps into blackness for a moment as something rock-hard and sharp – his elbow? – crashes into the back of my skull, and I barely get the chance to fall forwards from _that _before I see his knee rushing up towards my gut; my arms catch some of the hit, but I still – "Whuhhn!" – cry as my last breath is forcibly expelled from my lungs. Then I'm down on my knees, aching all over and helpless, with my head forced backwards by an iron grip clenched around my ponytail, unable to look at anything except the upside-down face of probably the one man I most want dead out of every person alive. Except for maybe Anna.

Time of battle: eight seconds. He's a Mishima. That's the way it goes.

"From what I hear, you've been busy since my son's _unfortunate _demise," he says, looking down at me the exact same way he did twenty-odd years ago…

…_with a flood of freezing-cold liquid creeping up around the edges of my naked body, strapped to a cruel steel bed, wanting more than anything to pull at the restraints, to break free and tear that smirk right off his face, but rendered immobile by the sedatives at work throughout my system, refusing to let me move even an inch – except for my eyes, just to let me stay awake long enough to comprehend the full horror of what's happening to me…_

He says some other things, but I'd be lying if I said I was listening. It's the same tired supervillain crap he's been spouting for years now.

"…there's no reason for us to be enemies anymore, Williams."

Oh come _on. _"Really? 'Cause that wouldn't go down well with my sis, and you _don't _wanna see her stroppy," I manage to grunt, hoping it'll buy me some wiggle room – and it does, sort of; he snorts, then shoves me away. Even such a simple action throws me a good twelve feet, but at least my arms break my fall. Footsteps are scuffling on the dusty ground all around me as I push myself up to one knee, rolling the stiffness out of my neck – that'll be the rest of Kazuya's cronies arriving on the scene, circling me like vultures. They keep their fingers off their triggers, though, no doubt waiting for their boss to put me down first.

His shadow falls over me as I look up, squinting as the sun peeks out from over his broad shoulder. In the dark, his miscoloured eye seems to glow crimson from within. "I know you have information that's of great value to me, and I had hoped that we could arrange a deal peacefully. But I suppose you're not as bright as I thought you were." Letting his arms drop from across his chest, he draws breath and raises one leg up, to the point where his foot's aiming for the sky, ready to drop down on my skull like an executioner's axe…

No. Not today. I am not…I _will not _be treated like a victim by this bastard ever again.

Something raw and primal escapes from my throat as I push myself up, bracing the knee of his kicking leg against my shoulder and swinging my right arm around to crash against his jaw while he simply blinks in surprise. Before he can force himself free, I hook the arm around the back of his neck and – "Hrrrah!" – kick off the ground into a rough somersault, carrying him up and over. _How big do you feel now, asshole? _is what I feel like saying, but there's not enough time before we land, drawing a sharp cough from him and a thick cloud of dust from the ground.

There's shouting coming from the soldiers – this whole plan depends on them being unwilling to shoot at someone so close to their boss – hell, 'plan' is too strong a word, since even if I do put Kazuya down I'll be swiss-cheesed by their rifles a second later, but a few hundred bullets seems like a fair price right now for wailing on this bastard. Pressing my knee against his throat, I throw the hardest right and left crosses I can remember swinging in years – and even though it feels like my knuckles are cracking on solid marble, he grunts and squeezes his eyes against them. This is _actually working. _Now give me that arm so I can snap it in two, you overconfident, stupid –

_Thwuck!_

"Guh!" His fist crashes into the side of my skull – dammit, should've tried for both arms instead of just one – and I roll off him, trying to absorb the blow as best I can. It'll give him breathing room, which I'd rather he didn't have, but it can't be helped; and as we both get back to our feet, I can see that aura of smug arrogance has bled out of him. He's worried. That makes me feel good. So good that I don't hesitate for a moment before rushing him.

This doesn't throw him off; he's a Mishima, like I said, and just as stubbornly tough and strong as the rest of that despicable clan…but frankly, I've had enough of being pushed around by those bastards. Just being born to some lucky bloodline – blessed with untouchable skill and power by the miracle of genetic accident – does NOT make Kazuya or anyone on his family tree invincible. And he's getting a reminder of it now; for every four of my strikes he parries or avoids, one breaks his defence, catching him in the flank or joints or stabbing straightened fingertips into his windpipe. Pressure-points can't drop him like they would on, y'know, a normal human being, but they _are _draining him. A fine sheen of sweat is dripping down his face and staining his collar, and his mouth hangs open constantly, gasping for breath. In turn, his attacks…well, they hurt like hell, no joke, but I've been around Kazuya a long, long time. Even when I haven't been fighting him myself, I've been watching, and by now I've got most of his style down. I know what hits I can afford to take, and what I absolutely have to avoid.

Like, for instance, that uppercut he's sending my way. I lean to the left and bat one forearm against his, making it sail wide of the mark, then raise the heel of my other arm's palm toward his chin. Ol' Kaz is a bit slow to evade, and I crack him on the nose instead, feeling it crumple under my hand before he stumbles backwards a few steps. A dribble of blood starts to leak down over his scowling lips as he leaps forwards again, and I crouch sharply a moment before the tell-tale 'swish' of a rapid whirling kick passing where my head used to be greets my ears. Knowing he'll keep spinning around into a succession of sweeps, I hop into a jumping kick of my own – which catches his head with a crack like a whip, sending Kazuya tumbling out of control. With my heartbeat hammering in my ears, I turn around to face him, catch him rolling onto all fours – screw it, let's live dangerously – and force myself to somersault into a Flip Heel Kick. The jarring impact of my spine on the ground is compensated by the yell he gives as my heel catches the back of his head.

Rolling back away from him, I spare the G-Corp soldiers a smirk; they're still dithering around waiting to be ordered to do something. "Ya know, Kazzy, if our roles were reversed, I'd be telling these guys to shoot _through _me just to kill you," I snark at him as he pushes himself up with heaving shoulders onto unsteady feet. Figure I've been generous enough with this little break, wouldn't you say? Stepping forward, my left foot lashes out firmly and catches –

_Whump!_

Shit shit _shit _he caught it – and then the world seems to fall away as his fingers tighten around my calf then pull, forcing me up off my other leg, before being spun around limply like a ragdoll taking the brunt of a child's temper tantrum…then the grip relaxes and for a second, I'm flying.

Then there's a wall against my back. "AAAGH!" I tried not to scream there, I really did, but if that wasn't the bricks I heard cracking…I don't wanna think about it. The ringing in my ears blocks out all other sounds as my knees hit the dirt, and I brace my palms on the ground to stop myself from flopping all the way down. Screwing my eyes shut, I chastise myself for being so careless, and I know, I just _know _I've blown my only chance at taking Kazuya out…but I force myself to stand back up again anyway. It's not like there's any way out of this now.

He's standing a good twelve feet away, folding his arms again, suddenly looking none the worse for wear. Is he just putting on a show? Or was he toying with me all along, deliberately giving me an opening just to test me or make some kind of point? I don't know, and I don't care; I just want to rip that dumb glowing eyeball out of his face before I die. It's not much to ask.

"You're boring me now, woman," he drones idly, taking a half-step back as I make a swing at him which even I'll admit was sloppy. For the next one I sober up a little more, and even when the shot misses I keep the momentum going and turn into a spin-kick, but he ducks it – oh, _dammit._

"DORYAH!"

…it's…hard to describe how that fancy punch of his feels. That's partly thanks to the way his chi expresses itself as an electric shock; it basically renders you numb right as the knuckles connect. So the pain only really hits home a second later, after you've been knocked up into the air and landed in an undignified heap.

But rest assured, it hurts like a motherfucker.

His footfalls on the dusty ground are faint as he approaches, but I listen for them as hard as I can, just so my mind doesn't choose to black out on me. I can feel my arms and legs, but they don't want to move right now, and my head is just a jumble of 'ow', 'ouch', and 'oh god make it stop'. The one piece of good news is that by sheer luck I had my mouth hanging open when he hit me, so my jaw's not broken. Even so, my teeth slammed together so hard I expect some are threatening to fall out, and my mouth's filling with blood from my gums. Can't afford to swallow it now, I'll just choke on it.

Then his fingers clamp tightly shut around my neck, and not choking becomes a whole lot harder. I think my stomach gets left behind when he lifts me up off the ground, leaving an awkward feeling of empty space in my guts that's soon accompanied by the numbing sensation of miscued circulation to my feet as they dangle helplessly in place. At least I can afford to clear my mouth now – giving a feeble cough that dribbles hot, sticky blood over my chin and his fingers. He doesn't seem to notice, content to simply burn a hole through me with that freakish glare of his.

"If you are so determined to be obstinate…that is your choice to make. I have some of the best forensics scientists in the world on my payroll – I'm sure they can divulge your secrets from your corpse." He bares his teeth…and a chill passes through me as a faint, rippling aura grows around him, swelling out from within to wrap him in flickering flames. A moment later, a wide gash spreads across his forehead, revealing a yellow, sickly-looking third eyeball – it's the Devil Gene, something ancient and terrible that I can only _pretend _to understand on a scientific level.

So, through a fog of pain and considerable panic, I do something that's not scientific in the least – swing my arm up and jam my thumb into that third eye.

The effect is immediate. "EEEEYAAAARGH!" Kazuya screams – really _screams, _like I've never heard him do so before – and twists around so sharply I nearly get a headrush and oh he's let go –

"Guh!" The dusty ground catches me like a speeding car again – Kazuya didn't so much 'let me go' as throw me away…and as I skid along, I find myself slipping onto cold, flat concrete again. Back in the garage. You've got a chance, one chance – look over your shoulder, there's a gun on the little equipment trolley you didn't put back in its box earlier. The trolley falls over when I clumsily tug on it, and the gun – a Colt M2014, standard US Army issue – drops into my lap. With shaking hands, I level it towards Kazuya, just as he turns to face me. Our eyes meet again, and the moment seems to drag on for a whole minute…I could put one slug right through his head from here. Probably. Figure my aim's still okay even after all the knocks. _But. _He doesn't look scared. He can see the gun and he just doesn't give a damn. Maybe he's trying to psych me out, maybe he's just incredibly arrogant…I just _don't know. _

And I can't take the chance.

_**BLAM!**_

The recoil jolt travels all the way up to my neck, making me strike the ground with the back of my skull as the shot hits home – and the control panel on the wall fizzes, sparks – then lets the reinforced shutters drop down with an echoing _clang, _sealing me off from Kazuya and his flunkies, for now at least. I'm a coward, I know, but shut up. I'm hurting here.

Groaning with every strain, I push myself up…slowly…feeling the distinctive, sharp stab of a broken rib or two whenever I flex my abdomen. And that's to say nothing about my head, which feels like it's trapped in a vice. Still, could be worse. I could be trapped, alone, inside a fortified garage with only one exit, which I just broke the controls for. Oh, wait. _Ahaha. _

_Krasshh! _The shutters rock from a heavy impact – more than likely Kazuya simply trying to punch his way in, guy has a one-track mind – but stand firm. There's some assorted shouting going on from his soldiers, probably planning on fetching C4 blocks or acetylene torches to try and force their way inside, but their boss' voice drowns the others out. "Running like a coward, Williams?! You used to at least have the courage to stand your ground before your betters – or has my son let some of his bad habits brush off on you?"

_Keep talking, you pointy-haired freak, _I want to shout back, but…who am I kidding, I've locked myself in a concrete box. Even with all the spare firepower around – I stare longingly at a rack of slightly dusty P90s, but know they're about as much use as a hiccup against a Mishima. The sound of sharp crackling makes my head jerk around; they must be torching the door, but they've not burned all the way through yet. That gives me time, to, to…

…to die in a blaze of glory? Sounds about right. At least that's technically a mission complete, even if no-one'll ever know. And I'm not gonna kid myself into thinking I'd be able to resist interrogation indefinitely; sooner or later, Kazuya's goons would make me crack, and then the world goes to hell in a hand basket all thanks to me. Although really, it's not so much the stakes that worry me as the thought of losing to _him._ It actually gives me no small sense of inner peace to know that whatever I do next, I won't have to put up with his smug attitude any more…

…okay, girl. Okay. Deep breaths. You knew this day was coming – nobody in this line of work gets a cosy retirement, and if you deal death to others on a regular basis you've got no right to be surprised when it comes looking for you. Just be brave and do what you've got to do.

"Or maybe figure out what I've got to do first," I mumble to myself, hobbling around on the spot, looking for something to inspire me. Frag grenades aren't enough, I need something with a little more explosive kick. My eyes are drawn back to the jeep under the tarp – if it's got a full tank, maybe I can rig it to blow on command; that'll splatter me into enough pieces they'll never be able to put me back together again. My ribs flare up again as I reach out and pull the tarp away, but –

Wait. That's not a jeep.

"Oh…baby, baby…" A giggle slips from between my lips as I stumble closer to the machine squatting in the centre of the room, the light from overhead gleaming on its polished black steel armour. Four pistoned legs lay curled beneath the bulk of its malformed body. Dulled crimson eyes stare towards the shutters from over a fixed, leering jawline. As my fingertips touch its surface, I can feel warmth and gentle vibrations – this thing's been running on standby for days, if not weeks, waiting. It's one of the NANCY units – heavy-duty battle mecha that, so I'd heard, had all been committed to the front lines and summarily destroyed over prolonged combat. Honestly, I'd always thought the things were stupid, lacking in mobility and making for very easy targets to enemy air support, but finding one here, expressly for my own sake, makes me want to cry a little.

The telltale _crackle-hiss _of a blowtorch getting to work on the shutter dissolves my euphoria like a glass of acid, but that's okay. I've got this well in hand now. Moving around to the mecha's front – wincing as I accidentally send another trolley clattering to the floor – I pry open the latches over the service panel with trembling fingers, then crouch down as the dirt-encrusted monitor lights up. A flickering laser runs over my right eyeball before everything turns a reassuring shade of green. Text starts to form across the screen, one agonisingly sluggish character at a time…

S.T.A.T.U.S.?

"Active," I say aloud, knowing the fancy voice-recognition software will understand me.

C.O.M.M.A.N.D.E.R.?

"Williams, Nina." Hurry _up _you colossal sardine tin, I don't have all day…

M.I.S.S.I.O.N.?

"Exfiltration over five miles, no pursuers. Weapons free."

A.C.C.E.P.T.E.D.

The screen switches itself off, and from somewhere within the robot's chassis I can hear heavy gears and pistons thump into life. The red optic lenses mounted on its garish head glow brightly, and joints left unused for months creak as they flex. Slamming the access panel shut with a grin, I reach up and – just – gimme a moment – _ugh, _pull myself up on top of the machine, bracing my legs on its weaponry as I go, before shimmying around to face front and laying as flat as I can. Suffice to say the NANCYs were never meant to be troop carriers, but I'd rather not be on the ground when it gets going…

_Crunch!_

I swear the concrete cracks under its foot when it takes that first step. The torch, already 2/3rds of the way through cutting a man-sized hole, stops abruptly, and though I don't hear them I can imagine the G-Corp soldiers backing away in concern. Probably not backing away far enough, though…

"Whoa - !" My stomach lurches as the robot suddenly rises up on its rear legs, smashing its own head and shoulders into the ceiling and sending a cloud of dust and broken masonry chips down over me. I squeeze my eyes shut against it – and then don't see but _feel _the machine lunge forwards, with the impact on the shutter barely sending a tremble through its immense frame. A dozen or more voices cry out in alarm and confusion before being drowned out by the whine of rotating Gatling barrels, and I open my eyes again just in time for the fireworks. Brilliant orange tracer rounds the size of my fist fly from the mecha's left arm at 1,200 per second; the soldiers caught in the line of fire don't so much die as explode, losing whole limbs and heads to a single bullet, their torsos catching enough flak to turn them into a fine red mist. The ones who manage to run farther are tracked by red lasers before guided missiles erupt from the machine's shoulder pods, leaving thick smoke plumes in their wake as they bear down on their targets and detonate at their feet, sending shattered, torn bodies flying across the square, crumpling against walls and smashing through windows.

Too much smoke now, I can barely see – didn't notice Kazuya anywhere in amidst the ruckus –

"WILLIAMS - !"

_Oh, great! _The voice comes from behind my right shoulder; I roll to my left and a moment later, Kazuya's red-gloved fist crashes into the robot's armour plating, actually leaving a dent in the shape of his knuckles. He's clinging onto the side of the NANCY with his mouth twisted into an animal's snarl, trails of blood still leaking from the ruined third eyeball. I send a kick his way that catches him firmly on the chin, but he doesn't budge; trying again just gets me a pointed elbow crashing against my calve, drawing a short yell of pain from my throat. God, why won't this bastard just _die?_

An iron grip fastens around my leg, and my own fingerhold is overpowered as I'm pulled down onto the side of the machine, barely hanging on with my feet perched on the oscillating limbs – "Guh!" – a snap-jab to the face redirects my attention forwards in time to see Kazuya winding up for another. I block that hit with the one arm I can spare, but I can't do anything about the following kick to the gut that leaves me winded. "WHEN WILL YOU LEARN, YOU FEEBLE WRETCH? YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME! NOTHI – "

_Crunch! _He gets cut-off in mid-yell by a titanic steel claw clamping shut around his entire head; I see a note of panic in Kazuya's one human eye before NANCY flexes and peels him off its side like a pesky tick, and then _slams _him into the ground with an echoing thud.

And then does it again, and again, and again, Kazuya's limbs flopping around like a ragdoll with each motion.

If I wasn't choking on dust, completely exhausted and hanging on for dear life, I don't know how I'd stop laughing.

After a few more swings, NANCY dismisses its target – or gets bored, maybe – and tosses Kazuya away through the wall of a nearby house. Dead? Not likely, knowing him. But out of the picture for the time being. With a fresh gasp of pain for every motion, I pull myself back up on top of the robot as it steps over the carpet of bodies covering the square, following its orders in its own, clunky way.

Two down. Two to go.

... ... ...

**Author's Notes:**

Yeah, so…still at this. Slowly- reeeaally slowly – but surely chipping away at it. I mostly blame my job, like I do for most things, for sapping my creativity.

Anyway…this chapter. It's actually hard for me to really talk about it in full, since there were such long gaps involved in writing it. Unlike the last one, though, not a lot changed from the initial idea to where it wound up, save for the deletion of a middle chapter intended to bridge this and CH6. That would've been set on a boat as Nina took a ferry to Australia, and had generally non-violent meetings with King and Marduk. Ultimately I dumped it since it served little purpose, would slow me down even more, and there wasn't much to be gained from having Nina talk to those two besides maybe some silly jokes.

I think the overall violence level went up with this chapter, which was totally intentional, but my apologies to anyone who read it and thought, _"Why is everyone using guns? This is Tekken, not Call of Duty!" _That…should change if and when the next few chapters get done; Nina won't be taking on another platoon of soldiers anytime soon. Another thing I hope came across well is the physical toll of battle; although there will definitely be cheating shortcuts here and there, I do want to make no bones about Nina getting broken down and burned out by her ongoing campaign, and injuries suffered here will impact her in future chapters.

Now, Kazuya…I'm not totally happy with how he turned out here, but I can't find a way to really improve on him. I think I made it clear how powerful and dangerous he is, so mission accomplished there; it's just kinda hard to write dialogue for the guy that has range beyond 'confident'. In the games he's just so controlled he's practically an ice sculpture, so having him lose his temper and do a little Bond Villain posturing was a risk. For the record, I do like Kazuya, and I like him 100% capital-E Evil. I do not believe he 'loves' Jun on any level; his impregnating her was, to me, wholly the actions of the Devil, both ensuring its own survival by essentially splitting its essence into a second body, and taking no little twisted pleasure in corrupting such a of the smarter touches in the 2010 Tekken film, but I'll say no more on that subject here in case the wrath of the internet descends upon me…

Also, NANCY. It's a giant robot. I can't not love a giant robot. That's really all there is to it.

Now, my latest (er, relatively speaking) reviewer:

**Aegis Khaos: **I swear I'll get round to giving you more feedback on 'Kings & Queens' soon, man, really. :P I guess we are both bound to the same force of universal suffering or somesuch. And yeah, I knew you were gonna give me hell for Geoff! I didn't want to do it at first, but trying to launch a light aircraft from Siberia in the middle of a snowstorm would've been even more impossible than landing it there, and I wanted to keep shaking things up, so two chapters with the same plane-related intro would be dull. As for Zombie Richard…I really didn't actually think of making him a factor in Nina's fight with Dragunov. That probably would have made sense, and been interesting, but I guess I was trying to rush through that part so it never really came up. Derpy derpy derp me. Nontheless, there will be more Richard in future – heck, there's more in this chapter – and I'm sure his ghostly presence will continue to be a thorn in Nina's side.

**Next time: **Uhm…I forgot. Gimme a sec. *consults plan* Oh, right. _Ahem. _Nina's on her way to merry old England, but at a stopover in a French airport, she's reunited with – no, not Lili, she annoys me – her former comrade Eddy Gordo, now left with neither an employer nor a master, and itching to vent his frustrations on _someone…_also guest-starring someone I can't talk about!


End file.
